


Raison d'être

by AmphigoricSymphony, DemonicSymphony



Series: Word Play [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Big Brother Mycroft, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Manipulation, F/M, Gen, M/M, Major Character Injury, Major Illness, Not Really Character Death, Protective John, Protective Mycroft, Sherlock Series 3 Spoilers, Sherlock Whump, Sherlock gets really sick, Sick Fic, Sickfic, major character illness, mention of past torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-18
Updated: 2014-04-18
Packaged: 2018-01-09 04:23:26
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 21
Words: 148,721
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1141383
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AmphigoricSymphony/pseuds/AmphigoricSymphony, https://archiveofourown.org/users/DemonicSymphony/pseuds/DemonicSymphony
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The missing months of His Last Vow, starting from Sherlock dropping in John's arms at 221B and carrying through the months of Hospital he endured. This is a study in emotional and physical trauma, striving to stick as close to the cannon plot as possible. Please heed the H/C tags here. </p><p>At Christmas Dinner, Mycroft asks why they are even celebrating. His mother's answer, 'Sherlock is home from hospital,' leads us to believe Sherlock was in hospital the majority of the time frame of his fall from shock at Baker Street, to nearly Christmas itself. We have no explanation for what John was doing all that time, so this is an effort to fill the gap. Enjoy!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Raison d'être - French - Reason for being

John felt Sherlock dropping out of his grip, slowly collapsing onto the floor as medics flooded the sitting room. He'd been talking, and then next he'd been sodding _dying_ , and John had been none the wiser, so distracted by his wife. Or rather, the assassin in his wife's place. His wife, it turned out, was never real to begin with. He watched in a daze as the medics worked Sherlock, standing back, wide-eyed and numb.

It wasn’t until they’d loaded him on the stretcher, and started to move Sherlock out of the flat, that John snapped back to himself. He looked over at Mary… or whatever the hell her true name actually was, and shook his head. “I can’t do this right now. I have to go with him.” He turned away, left hand curled to a loose fist as a blanketing wave of numb resignation washed over him.

He did not bother to look back as he took to the stairs. The medics were not wasting any time loading Sherlock into the ambulance. John's stomach dropped out as he heard the familiar _compress - whoosh - hold- release... compress - whoosh - hold - release..._ of someone handling Sherlock's breathing for him. He'd crashed so hard that he'd apparently quit all together. John hopped in the open double doors, ignoring the passers by all gathered by the spinning emergency lights on a darkened Baker Street, and a moment later they were off. John grabbed a stethoscope off the ambulance wall and began to assist the medics in keeping him breathing until he could be properly seen to. Sherlock was down the entire ride to Royal London Hospital, swept up into emergency surgery as soon as they arrived.

Two hours and four units of blood later, Sherlock was back in a room, simply needing time to recover. He'd torn internal stitching, likely from all the damned running about. The idiot had lost enough blood to put him into shock. John settled at his side, exhausted, staring off into space as he waited for him to wake up. Nursing staff came and went in the hours that it took Sherlock to regain himself. He'd been looked over twice by surgeons in that time as well. John sat at his side, quietly taking in what was said from time to time, mostly in his own mind as he considered the wild turn life had just taken. Eventually he dropped off into a shallow sleep, exhausted and overwhelmed. 

Sherlock scowled as he opened his eyes, shifting his focus around the room and taking it in through the haze of morphine. The corner of his mouth turned up when he spied John, asleep by the bed. “You’re rather boring asleep, you know.”

He fiddled with the morphine pump, turning it down. How he detested being fuzzy when not high of his own volition. Morphine with actual pain was no good to him at all; it left him heavy and slow. Sherlock muttered as he sat the bed up, wincing and wrapping his hand over his abdomen. 

John drew in a slow breath as he came awake, smiling for just a moment before opening his eyes. “You’re rather boring with the dying bit. Aren’t you tired of it yet?" he returned fondly, if not a bit rough in tone as he woke up.

He rubbed his face before he got to his feet. John checked his watch as he stretched and stepped to the side of the bed. His fingers slid over Sherlock’s wrist in a nervous habit, allowing him physical contact that did not demand explanation, using the guise of checking Sherlock's heart rate to touch him. He did not want to think on why exactly he wanted physical contact, but oh god, how he did. “Pulled your sutures.”

Sherlock gave him a look and shook his head, wincing as he pulled at his incision, “Yes, though I’m fine. I know my limits.” He turned his focus away, breathing with some difficulty in the haze of post-surgical pain, “You did not have to come with me, John… I imagine you have much on your mind."

With a breathless laugh, John cocked his head to the side and looked up at Sherlock’s monitors. “Be going through worse if you’d bloody died on me.” He cleared his throat and let go of Sherlock’s wrist. “Think it’s time to redefine your limits.”

Sherlock clicked his tongue as his hand waved clumsy in the air, having meant to catch John's hand and failing spectacularly. He scowled at the morphine pump as he rambled to John, his words heavy and slurred. “Can’t believe you thought I’d just drug myself up again by the way,” he remarked at random, his mind demanding he address that, of all the issues. It had stung that John and Molly had so instantly assumed the worst of him. Molly's hand had been sharp and swift, but the sting of betrayal in John's eyes hurt worse by yards. In his pained, hazy delirium, he felt free to address it.

It took John a moment to catch up with Sherlock's thought process, quietly explaining himself. “You’d been silent, hardly responding to texts, never answering when I rang you up. You'd been worried about the wedding and not acting yourself, and then I find you it’s in a bloody drugs house, Sherlock. You have a history with addiction. I’d be an idiot not to think-” John took a breath to slow himself down. “Clearly didn’t think. Christ, my wife shot you. My _wife_.” He cleared his throat and adjusted his footing as chilled instability wrapped around the major muscles in his legs, making him doubt their ability to support him. “Really though, are you feeling... ’alright’ sounds a little thick at the moment but I can’t find a better word.”

Sherlock caught the distress John was so diligently trying to hide and pressed his fingers to John’s hand. “I will be fine, John. She could have easily killed me and chose not to.” He wrinkled his nose as he took a deep breath. “Anyhow, I’m worried about you. I am where I need to be.”

John looked down at where Sherlock's fingers brushed against his knuckles and closed his eyes, quiet for a few minutes as he collected himself. “Thanks for ah, putting my chair back in the flat. It's-” he stopped to clear his throat, "yeah good... good to have the option." He looked at Sherlock and then dropped his eyes to the large dressing pad in Sherlock’s abdomen. “You are completely mental. Gut shots are so-” John shook his head as he pulled in a deep breath, knowing that Sherlock was in a great deal of pain from that damned wound even before he'd re-injured himself. “She sounded so _worried_ when I called her the first time you were brought to hospital, so damned surprised that anything had happened to you.” His lip ticked up in self-depreciative amusement. He'd eaten up the act without suspicion, never once questioning her. 

Sherlock's reply was quiet and distracted. “I imagine she was.” Sherlock eyed his drip and groaned, pain working its way around him with enough ferocity that he was forced to restore the strength of the medication. He reached out and turned it back up in spite of himself. He let his head rest back against the pillow. “How long will you stay?”

“I’d not thought about it. I’m not keen on going home, and you are a horrible patient... I’m just going to sodding worry anywhere I go. More likely question is ‘how long till you have me out?” He flexed his hand at his side and then slid it into his pocket when he noticed the visible tremor. “Thank you for calling an ambulance while I was too rattled to see how bad off you were, by the way. I was... Christ... bit distracted. Should have seen...in hindsight, it was clear as day that you needed help.”

Sherlock smiled at that. He wrapped his hand around John’s, behaving for all the world as though that were a perfectly normal and routine thing to do. “I thought it prudent at the time. John, I wouldn’t have you out for the world.” His features had relaxed as the morphine sank back into his system, progressively smoothing out the lines of tension at the corners of his lips and eyes. 

John stared down at their hands, not at all inclined to pull away, grateful for Sherlock's air of indifference at the moment. He stood there until he couldn’t keep himself still. He slid a foot back and hooked it in a nearby chair, dragging it forward and sinking down in it.

“What you said…” John was staring at Sherlock’s monitor, keeping his chin still for the moment despite the churning tide of too much sodding emotion, “about me. How I- I chose her, and chose you, and-” his words clipped off on a deep breath and he closed his eyes. He was still as marble for nearly a minute before his face pinched and he dragged in a breath, clearly strained in his effort to keep calm, “I just wanted... God, a _life_ , you know?”

“I know.” Sherlock squeezed John’s hand. “You deserve a life you can enjoy as well though.” He hummed. “You are quite extraordinary, John Watson.”

John laughed, the sound nearly pained, shaking his head. “Don’t, god just don’t.” He leaned forward, resting his forehead on the rail of Sherlock’s bed, closing his eyes and breathing slowly until he could trust himself to speak without curling on the floor and screaming. “She’s pregnant. I- psychopath is pregnant with my-” he swallowed and , shrugged the thought down. He couldn’t do it. Not today.

“Oh, don’t do us a disservice. We’re sociopaths, John. You... and while we're at it, Molly, are attracted to us. Honestly,” Sherlock wrinkled his nose. “Molly has an impressive ability to strike _hard_. Were you aware she could do that?” His words were starting to slur again, heavy with exhaustion and strain.

Sherlock's tone caught John's attention and he looked up from the railing in concern. “Should try and sleep,” he said quietly. He let go of Sherlock’s fingers and leaned back, pressing a hand over his eyes, his knee bouncing lightly in an effort to soothe himself. He could typically remain steady and solid, but this… this had been too much and his coping mechanisms and emotional reserves were failing him. Not long ago he’d sat between, as Sherlock had put it, the two people in the world who loved him most on the Most Important Day of his Life, and now one had nearly literally killed the other. He was finding it hard to breathe.

“You should rest as well, John. If you want to stay. Rest.” Sherlock nodded off before he could help it, the medication and physical taxation dragging him abruptly under just after he managed to murmur, “Stay."

John leaned forward in his chair and propped his elbow on Sherlock’s mattress for a moment, holding his breath and putting his energy to stilling his mind. When he’d managed to get himself settled, he stood and pushed a large, reclining chair closer to the bed. He settled himself down on it, arms folded across his chest, refusing to think of Mary when his mind supplied him with an image of her warm smile. He had no energy to put his thoughts to that situation, not with Sherlock down for a second time at her hand.

Sherlock slept without incident through the night. John was nearby and he would heal. In the small hours of the morning, Sherlock opened his eyes. He yawned as he dragged his sluggish focus around the room again, finding John was sprawled on the recliner at his bedside. In the drugged haze, Sherlock could not tell if John was resting, or asleep. He called out quietly to him, hoarse and wincing at how pained his throat was. "John?"

“Here,” John answered back without hesitation. He opened his eyes and sat up, scrubbing his hand over his hair and getting groggily to his feet. “Need something?”

“Water, throat is infuriatingly dry. Morphine… God knows what they had down my throat for surgery.” Sherlock responded with open, generalized irritation. He wanted to go home.

John nodded as he scrubbed a hand over his eyes, unsteady as he moved for the pitcher on the small wheeled table. He poured Sherlock a glass of water and began to hand it to him when he realized how badly Sherlock's hands were shaking.He dropped a straw into the cup and handed it to him, keeping his hands around it until he was sure Sherlock had a satisfactory grip.

Sherlock groaned as he began to slowly drink, the cold water soothing on his inflamed throat. John took the cup from him when he handed it back, watching Sherlock take in a deep breath and wince when the motion of expanding his ribs disturbed the wound. “Thank you, John," he whispered, his voice less rough now that he'd soothed his throat somewhat. He blinked up at him, in a daze, his filters all shut down under exhaustion and narcotics. He licked his lip and pulled in a careful breath, nervous to upset the wound again, speaking just above a whisper. "I- I honestly do not know what I would do without you in my life. It... when I was away..." he shook his head and closed his eyes, "I don't know what I'd do if you were not involved in some capacity, John."

 _Drugs is what you’d do,_ John's mind supplied, a bit too viciously to be warranted. 

“Morphine is making you sentimental,” he quipped gently as he slipped his fingers around Sherlock’s wrist. “Let me take a look at your abdomen? Bit nervous now with that whole thing. Humor me.”

Sherlock shook his head at John's response, “As ever, my blogger, you see but not observe. Always that with you, John.” A small grin tugged his lips up as he looked down at the dressing on his abdomen, hitching up the gown so that John could take a look, “Be my guest.”

John spent the next few minutes giving Sherlock a once-over, palpating his abdomen and checking his vitals, all despite the fact that he was not his standing physician. He’d bloody well missed Sherlock going into hemorrhagic shock earlier. He’d not miss that again. It gave him something to focus on, which was always a welcome relief. The silence gave his mind time to turn over Sherlock's words, providing him with a terrible, and likely obvious thought. “Did you know. About Mary? You’re right, I see but don’t observe. That’s not the case for you though, is it?”

The question took Sherlock by surprise and he drew in a sharp breath, tight lines returning to his face as he considered his answer, regretting everything. “I knew she was lying. I-” he sighed as he scratched a nail over the rough sheets on the bed, absently calculating the likely thread count, his mind calling up the weave structure of the mixed materials that created the threads themselves. “I could see that she legitimately loved you... still does, that. Love you.” He stayed quiet for another minute as he considered his words.

“Molly once caught me- before the fall, she caught me looking at you. I suspect Mary looks much the same when she has her attention on you without your notice as I do.” _Sodding Morphine. Bane of my existence. Shut your mouth, Sherlock. Just shut up._ Sherlock looked away, his jaw set and twitching now that the words were out.

John stared at him for a moment before gathering his wits back, having had them soundly knocked away from him by Sherlock's words. His brow knit as he considered what Sherlock had just said. “The way…”

He moved to the side of Sherlock’s bed and slowly sat down, studying Sherlock’s expression. “The way you do. When I’m not looking," he repeated, handling the words like fragile spun glass. 

“Can’t very well look at you that way when you could see me doing so. Did once, at your wedding. Thought you’d fall over on the dance floor.” The corner of Sherlock’s mouth quirked up, though it wasn't quite a smile.

“That- you weren’t looking at me, I didn’t think you were looking at me. You were looking at me?” John leaned forward, his worldview shifting once again. Mary was an assassin and Sherlock, drugged albeit, was telling him that he had been directing _that_ particular expression at him.

Sherlock tilted his head, openly incredulous, “Who on this planet would I have been directing it to, if not you, John? Who do you imagine could possibly garner my affections in such a way?”

John was swift to answer. “I- I don’t know, figured you were having someone on. You are an ace with the acting, bloody risky to take you at face value.” He shook his head, staring at the morphine pump and carrying on talking. “There are- I mean what-.” What was he to do with that? What was there to say?

“I get bloody confused when I’m around you. I’m not gay. I’m not. You- it’s always been... I love her. Loved her. Love- Christ, I’m a bloody mess. You’re just as likely to point that damn finger of yours at me and have a laugh in the next minute as you are to just tell me it was the morphine.” He pressed his fingers to his temples, feeling ill.

Sherlock hummed, his features softening in agreement, “I’ll give you all of that. As for it just being the morphine, no, though it did have a rather large role in my vocalizing this.” He shrugged as he carried on. “I never meant to confuse you. For that I am sorry. Well, I'd not intended to confuse you in that particular way. There are rather- well there have been a number of times I’ve purposefully confused you. Your sexuality, however, was never on the list.”

John tipped his head back and laughed, shaking his head in the next moment. “I keep wondering if I’ve been shot again and this is some insane alternate reality my mind thrust me into. Sitting bedside of my best mate, discussing my sexuality of all the damn things, while my assassin wife sits pregnant with my child. Jesus.”

He settled his hands over his lap, spinning his wedding ring as his mind crawled through the new information. When he spoke again, his voice was soft and quiet. “I’ve no idea what to do with myself. Sherlock. None of this… I’ve been- it’s all been lies. All of it. With you, with Mary, with myself. And here you are... almost died on me twice and-” he drew in a sharp breath and shut up, more rattled than he'd been in a long while, stammering like a damned drunkard. He struggled to divert the topic as he spoke again, clearing his throat.

“It’s late and you- you’re lucky you’re alive, you know that? You’re really quite injured. Don’t try to get out of this bed, alright? You’re going to be okay, but this is all really serious, Sherlock. That round cut into your liver fairly seriously and that is the last organ you want to set hemorrhaging."

Sherlock hummed and closed his eyes, speaking softly to John in return. “I won’t be escaping into the streets again, entirely too exhausted for that. Thank you for the water. I’ve kept you up in the middle of the night. Go back to sleep. I am sorry you’re having to sit here with me.” Sherlock let the bed back down until he was comfortable and tried to relax. “She loves you. That bit is not at all a lie.”

John shook his head and looked away. “You’ve not kept me up, Sherlock. I don’t particularly trust myself to sleep.” He did shift slightly, settling better into his chair. “This,” he waved at Sherlock’s chest, “god, this.” He scrubbed his hand over his mouth, hardly believing Mary did this. “I should have known, any woman that would have fallen for me, and so fast... I didn’t want to think about it, I just _wanted it_. Now you’re here and I’m-” he clicked his tongue and closed his eyes. “I know you're in pain, I’m sorry, Sherlock. I am.”

“John, there is no fault in you. I am fine. Try to rest. Grant it as a favor to me.” Sherlock’s voice was heavy with the weight of exhaustion. He let out a soft sigh. “Some rest and things will be a bit further away.”

That, John could get on board with. _Further away._ He arranged his chair back as it had been, this time going and collecting a blanket from the cabinet for himself. John slipped down into sleep facing Sherlock.

Sherlock cracked an eye open to watch John for a few minutes before slipping back to sleep himself. He did not dream, his mind still despite the haze of drugs and trauma. There would be time enough to deal with everything later. Hours ticked by with little more than their steady, even breathing and the soft blip of the monitors. 

John snapped awake when a nurse came in to swap out Sherlock’s fluids and check his vitals. He’d been sweating in his sleep, his heart racing from dreams he'd yet to shake off. The nurse looked apologetically to John and then walked over to the sink, wetting a flannel for him. John pressed it over his face with a shaking hand, breathing slow as he could. “Be careful,” he whispered as the nurse moved to check Sherlock’s bandages, not that it was necessary thing to warn. Of course the nurses would be careful. He simply couldn’t stomach the thought of more pain for Sherlock to needlessly endure.

Sherlock roused as soon as he was touched, reaching out with remarkable speed and gripping the nurse’s wrist before he came fully awake. He demanded to know, in harsh, angered Serbian, what the man thought he was doing. His eyes shot open and he studied the nurse's face, taking a moment to put together what was going on. With a sharp inhalation, Sherlock let him go. “Apologies.” He swallowed down the rising bile in his throat and looked away, trying to slow his breathing as his heart raced.

John had got to his feet the moment Sherlock grabbed the nurse. He'd no idea what Sherlock had said, though it was perfectly clear that Sherlock, for a moment, had not known where he was. He approached the bed opposite Sherlock’s nurse and reached out without thinking, putting a hand over Sherlock’s in silent understanding. He’d suspected Sherlock of having difficulty with trauma since his return, thought he’d just been too focused on the million other aspects of his own life to put much thought to it.

He said nothing as the nurse finished up, shaking his head when they were asked if they needed anything. It wasn’t until they were alone that he spoke. “Hey… you alright?”

Sherlock kept his face turned away, still struggling with the echos of fear that had gripped his heart in a freezing vice. When he spoke, his voice was low and rough. “Before I appeared at your engagement dinner as a Frenchman, Mycroft had... recently hauled me out of Serbia.” Sherlock sighed. “I made a miscalculation, resulting in my capture. He was forced to go undercover to secure my release and bring me home.” His expression made it clear that admission made him sick. He'd been so bloody _stupid_ and he'd never live it down, now indebted to Mycroft irrevocably. 

“Rescue you,” John repeated, not at all liking the implications of that. He’d noticed Sherlock had been… off, though he’d chalked it up to returning from the dead and all that cop, not anything more.

Sherlock held up a finger. “Help me sit up? Off the mattress I mean…”

Deep lines settled across John's puzzled forehead as he leaned forward, offering his hand for Sherlock to take on his right side, sliding the other to Sherlock’s shoulders and helping him, very carefully with that gut wound, to sit up off the mattress. He did not let his shoulders go, unsure that Sherlock could keep himself upright, not at all wanting Sherlock to rely on his core muscles.

“My back... will you tell me how the progression has advanced? I haven’t looked in a long while.” Sherlock had no idea if the wounds had faded yet.

John’s gut twisted before he moved his eyes away from Sherlock’s face. He held his breath as he shifted himself, clicking on the little bedside light while keeping an arm slung across Sherlock's collarbone, finally setting his eyes to Sherlock’s back.

“Oh, god,” he breathed, unable to help himself as he set his fingers to Sherlock’s back, tracing over the lines, “Sh-” his throat closed off and he was entirely unable to speak, eyes wide as he mapped out what had been done to him, now clear in faded lines of white and random, raised ridges of pinked, fresh scar tissue.

“Right, going to take that as it still looks less than pleasing. Told Janine I’d fallen off a bus while on vacation in Spain.” Sherlock shrugged. “No matter, none of it pains. Mostly superficial scarring. It’s the scars in my mind that act up on occasion. Thought I do not suppose I have to explain that to you.”

John-the-Doctor eased Sherlock back down, knowing it was not at all recommended for him to be up so soon after abdominal surgery, while John-the-Best-Friend-and-Confused-Heterosomething tried to get his throat to work again. “Why didn’t you tell me?” He asked gruffly. “Your hand. I’d seen it. I- why didn’t I- Jesus, Sherlock, and then I boxed you about. I’m sorry, god, I didn’t know.” He sat down carefully, figuring there was more dignity in that than potentially having his knees short out on him.

Sherlock responded easily to that. “You needed to be angry with me, I could see that. You needed time to sort it out, to be mad. You would not have been able to work past it and be properly arsed with me had I told you what happened to me while I was gone. John-the-Soldier and John-the-Doctor would have shorted out John-Who-Had-Every-Right-to-be-Angry.” Sherlock looked at him. “Then things got-” He shrugged. “I was doing fine.”

“I found you in a sodding drugs house, Sherlock. Don’t put that lot on the case, just- I highly doubt it was entirely about the case. I- we... damn,” he shook his head, sick at his stomach. “I would have- Jesus you were being tortured while I was putting bloody flowers on your grave.” He drew in a tight breath and nodded, suddenly composed again. “You can talk to me about it, if you need to. I’ve never been tortured, but I understand the business with mental scars.”

“It was- I broke into a black-ops base in Serbia. Moriarty had sold legitimate plans to their government, it was extremely time sensitive that they be recovered. I made a mistake, got caught…” Sherlock took in a breath. “Held them off a few days with a story about being a Frenchman named Graham Lestrade.” He huffed.

John cracked a smile at the absurdity of it all. Funny thing was, Sherlock often thought Lestrade’s name damn well _was_ Graham. “Never can remember ‘Greg’ can you? Though, likely would have been a poor idea to give that out.” He reached forward despite himself and wrapped his hand around Sherlock’s. “How long?”

Sherlock moved his hand so that he could twine his fingers with John’s, “Almost a month.”

John nodded at that, his gut twisting. “That’s… a hell of a long time, Sherlock. Jesus. You’ve got to be careful with the drugs. Don’t- Don’t argue here, I don’t know how often you use them or if you use them at all outside of this case, I’m telling you as your friend who happens to be a doctor, that some of them, heroin and cocaine particularly, can seriously heighten those sorts of memories. Even some cold medications can do it. Pseudoephedrine is not a good idea for you, if you can avoid it.” He squeezed Sherlock’s fingers, shaking his head. “Christ, Sherlock, here you are gut shot telling me about being bloody tortured not that long ago. I’m sorry. I should have seen that you were not okay.”

“Not using.” He rubbed his thumb over John’s hand. “I’ll be careful. Shot, plus drugs now. Tends to bring it out in anyone I would think. I’m okay.” Sherlock looked up at him. “The nightmares though-” He shook his head. “When I was having them regularly… I’m sorry you had to go through that all those years. It's hell.”

John sharply inhaled as he leaned forward, keeping hold of Sherlock’s hand. It was wrong, all so wrong, that Sherlock would be waking up in _heart racing, panic laced, copper throated, terror_ in the middle of the night. Just so very wrong. Sherlock was supposed to be… he didn’t…

John’s mind went to the gray bedsit where he’d suffered alone for so long, and Sherlock was basically now in the same. “This… Sherlock you don’t have to manage this alone.”

Sherlock still had his inhibitions knocked about by the morphine. He reached up and touched John’s cheek with his other hand. “I’m alright. Never better.” He winked. “But in all seriousness. John, I’ll be fine. I will. I had been doing very well. But if I need to talk about it more, I will not hesitate to talk to you.”

John closed his eyes and just lingered there, allowing the moment to stretch out as it would. His life was once again flipped on its head and all the lines were blurred and the places shifted. “I’ve not… I said it wouldn’t change after I got married, but it did. I’ve not been a very good friend to you since you’ve got back, have I?”

He opened his eyes again and gave Sherlock a sad smile.

“You’ve been busy and I was an arse. In hindsight, surprising someone in the middle of a fancy dinner without warning was less than appropriate… that moustache though, I’m deeply glad of it's absence.” Sherlock’s thumb brushed over John’s upper lip without thought, smiling softly at him.

John hummed and closed his eyes at the touch. It was… odd… perfectly natural and utterly wrong that Sherlock had his hands on him like that. “I hated it. I just...’Oi, aren’t you that bloke from the papers? With the detective?’” he mimicked the average accent of the endless comments he got the first few months afterwards. “I couldn’t catch a break, everywhere I went, it was endless. So I just… well, for a while I left off shaving altogether. Then I just left the moustache and that nearly stopped it all.”

“You look horrible with a moustache, never do it again. Stubble all the way ‘round is another story.” Sherlock smiled as he let his hand move to John’s arm and just rest there. “You are the most impossible man I know. You have survived so much that I have put you through.”

John didn’t quite know how to respond to that. He shifted and then gave it up, making a sound of frustration before dropping the side rail of the bed and perching a hip there. “It’s all gone sideways, Sherlock. Everything. I can’t even… she’s bloody pregnant. I just- it never stops sliding downhill, does it?”

Sherlock shook his head, “I don’t know. She’s pregnant, I’m telling you I-” He took a slow breath, “I believe she truly loves you. I do.” He huffed lightly a moment later, speaking softly once again. “Life is never easy for us, is it?”

John shrugged it off, there was no sense dwelling. “Suppose not.” That had been precisely what he’d been going for when settling down with Mary. He’d learned the lesson, would hold it close to his chest from now on. There was no normalcy or simplicity for him. Not for him. 

“How’s your pain? Need anything?” He asked quietly, the weight of it all pressing down hard on his shoulders.

“Pain’s fine, need a muzzle, but I’m okay.” Sherlock looked at their hands, his thumb making slow circles on John’s hand. He wondered how long he'd enjoy the liberty of so freely touching John, who was rarely so expressive.

“A muzzle. Not that I particularly disagree from time to time, but I’m not seeing it right now.” He shifted slightly closer to Sherlock, watching him for signs that he was being perhaps less than truthful regarding his condition.

Sherlock looked up, “John Watson, if you come any closer you'll be in danger of making me believe you intend to kiss me,” He was exhausted, and it showed through the amusement in his eyes as the corner of his lip quirked up. 

“Hell, I just might,” John rejoined, leaning slightly back to give Sherlock his space. “You need to sleep. Not had nearly enough. I can’t believe you were running about with those stitches torn.” He shook his head and took a deep breath as he stood up. “I’m keeping you awake. Go back to sleep.”

Sherlock yawned and waved his free hand about absently. “Sleep is boring. If it makes you happy, I suppose I will do so anyhow.” Sherlock tugged John’s hand and swiftly brushed John's knuckles over his lips. “Thank you, for being here. You have every right to walk out after those two years. I am glad you have not.”

John stilled, watching Sherlock like he’d never seen him before. He did not move for a full minute, before pulling away gently, standing up and fixing the railing. “Death is boring. Sleep helps push that away, alright? No dying on me.”

He moved over to the chair and settled down slowly, touching his fingers to his lips and letting his eyes fall closed.

Sherlock drifted to sleep with ease, fueled by exhaustion and aided by drugs and glad for John’s presence in the room.


	2. Chapter 2

John did not go back to sleep, too keyed up and his mind far too busy to manage it. He stayed at Sherlock’s side for several hours, finally slipping out of the room as activity in the hall began to pick up. He tracked down the primary physician handling Sherlock's case, intent to know the full report and treatment plan. Mark Walthers was a pleasant man whom John had worked with a few times before, though they were not well acquainted by any means. He stood in the physician’s lounge and spoke to John quietly, going over Sherlock’s condition for the better part of half an hour. John requested that the same circulating staff be used and for new faces to be kept to a minimum, watching as a little note was added regarding Sherlock’s difficulties and likely PTSD.

Sherlock came awake slowly, the effort difficult with the clinging drugs in his system. He blinked his blurry vision to focus, noting that John was absent from the room. His heart sank before he noticed John’s coat slung over the back of the chair. In a rush of relief, he realized that John had simply stepped out, not gone entirely. He trailed a shaking hand along the side of his bed, seeking out and pressing the little red button to summon a nurse. 

One appeared in the doorway shortly after - _two children, grown, empty nest, three cats, worked at Barts 10+ years, expecting a grandchild_ \- and he pointed to his water and held his throat. He had exactly zero desire to speak with the woman, who smiled and set about getting cold water for him. She held the cup even as Sherlock tried to take it himself, waiting until he was done before starting in on collecting vital signs and adjusting leads, swapping out an empty drip bag for a full one. 

When John had finished speaking with Sherlock's doctor, he took himself down the stairs, skipping the elevator for want of a little physical activity, and bought himself a sandwich from the little shop. Sherlock was on a liquid diet, or he’d have picked one up for him as well. He ate on his way back, taking his time, finally coming back into the room nearly forty minutes after leaving.

“You’re up,” he said gently as he looked over at Sherlock, noting the nurse and giving her a friendly, if not prefabricated, smile. “How’re you feeling?”

While still sore, Sherlock's throat was much improved and his voice less hoarse than it had been. “Like I’ve been shot. Otherwise, passable,” He’d turned down his morphine, “And like I need to keep this damned drip turned down before I confess the Queen's secrets. I did more than my fair share of speaking last night.” There was amusement in Sherlock’s tone as he smiled to John. “Glad to see you. Was afraid my snoring had run you off.”

John's lip had quirked up at Sherlock's mention of how freely he'd been speaking. “Are a bit loose lipped when you’re drugged, didn’t expect that one.” He shook his head and returned the smile. “No snoring from you, quiet as a mouse. Bit unnerving really.” He leaned over and peeked at the listed vitals attached to the working chart beside Sherlock's bed, his brows knitting for just a moment before he went back over to his chair. “Should I be expecting your brother soon?”

“Who knows. Oh god… he might bring Mummy and Father. Ugh. Save me, John. Surely you can tell them all I can’t possibly be seen right now. Far too dangerous for me to be exposed to annoying things.” Sherlock expression was nothing short of gravely serious as he considered a potential family visit.

John clipped a laugh and shook his head. “Oh, stop it. You’ve got parents that give a damn. Don’t lose sight of how fortunate you are for that.” He shifted in his chair, looking up at the clock. It was near noon. He wondered where Mary had gone, if she had left their home yet, where she would go.

Sherlock’s phone chimed from his little bag of belongings the hospital had put together from his arrival near John’s chair. “Mycroft’s tone. Do be my blogger again and check it, won’t you?”

John got up and pulled out Sherlock’s phone, thumbing the screen and reading the text.

_I would have appreciated learning of your situation from someone other than your landlady. She was in something of hysterics. Is my presence required? -MH_

John read the text to Sherlock and then handed the phone over, keeping close to the bed.

Sherlock heaved a long-suffering sigh as he replied.

_I’m fine. Simply the effect of dislodged sutures. -SH_

“Thank you, John," he said as he handed the phone back, behaving as though nothing was on, "Now, when will those insufferable doctors let me to Baker Street? We have a case.”

“A case?” John asked incredulously. “What, you mean _Mary_? No, Sherlock you’ve got to heal, you were bleeding into your belly last night. No.” Anger had twisted John’s features and he was breathing perhaps a bit too sharply. The mobile chimed with another text and John returned it to Sherlock without reading it.

_That’s not at all what your medical record reflects, brother. MH_

“Blast and damnation does he ever stop looking at things he ought not!?” Sherlock looked up at John and he gentled. “Okay… alright. I’ll stay as long as you think I should.”

_John says I have to stay, do whatever you want to. You will anyhow. -SH_

“Excellent. I look forward to learning which nurse is shagging the other, so on and so forth.” John took another deep breath to settle himself. He’d been momentarily afraid they were going to have a struggle over this. He hardly paid mind to Sherlock's phone.

_Do you feel entirely safe with John at the moment, Sherlock? MH_

Sherlock read the message several times, his face turned thunderous as indignant anger tore through him so strongly that texting would no longer suffice. He punched the call button with his thumb, listening to the line ring, waiting for his _idiot_ brother to answer.

John blinked in surprise. Sherlock never phoned people, ever. “Sherlock?” He asked softly, unsettled at the expression Sherlock had across his face.

Mycroft’s voice was steady and even as he answered the phone. “I was not trying to insult you, Sherlock. Clearly you can see that it’s a valid concern to raise.”

Sherlock's reply was swift and sharp. “John Watson has not once, not _once_ ever endangered my life. If you ever insinuate something similar again I will break your arm and that bloody nose of yours like I almost did when you came over raiding my bloody flat. Am. I. Understood. Brother?” Sherlock trembled as he crushed the phone in a bloodless grip.

John’s eyebrows had vanished up in his hairline, taken aback by Sherlock’s sudden shift in behavior, no idea what the hell was on. He stood up and went to Sherlock’s side, wrapping a hand around his wrist to try and steady him.

“I fail to see how your meaning could be described as less than crystal," Mycroft returned in tight irritation, keeping his voice professionally level. "I’ll leave you to him, then, seeing your insistence on the matter. I do hope it is not blind, one way or another.”

Sherlock’s intake of breath was sharp, almost pained, “Why on Earth is John a concern?”

Mycroft clicked his tongue on the other end of the line, “If you believe I remain ignorant to the identity of your shooter, then perhaps you’ve been given a bit too much morphine. It should be obvious why he is a concern, association can often lead to unexpected behavioral shifts. John is in a… tenuous situation. While you may indulge in blind faith, it is at the core of my position, and as your brother, to anticipate the worst, however unthinkable.”

“Yes, well, I haven’t shot you yet, have I?” Sherlock rolled his eyes and leaned toward John. “You lack insight into the reasoning. I am safe. John will not hurt me.”

Mycroft hummed on the other end of the line, “I never said I believed it high on the list of probabilities, I simply asked if you felt safe in his company. Get some rest, brother, you are beginning to worry me.”

The muscle of John's jaw, _pterygoidomandiularis, just behind the buccinator muscle_ was jumping as he put the current conversation together. First his association with Sherlock, now his association with his own wife, ended with _him_ under suspicion. He drew back slightly, looking down at his feet as his mind attacked him for being the sodding fool that he was. _Brought this on yourself. Just couldn't handle alone, could you?_

“There is nothing to worry about, Mycroft. I am simply drugged - _legally_ \- and irritated with your idiotic assumptions. This is all perfectly normal behavior given the circumstances. I’ll be fine. Don’t tell Mummy… you’ll worry her.” Sherlock made a face at John as he spoke to Mycroft, expression reflecting how both amused and fed up he was with the man.

“I’d sooner involve your landlady than Mummy,” The line rang off as Mycroft put the phone down.

John kept his eyes on Sherlock, still holding to his wrist. “So I’m... he doubts me, that’s how this is going to play out. Just as before.” With a tight nod he looked away for a moment, taking in a deep breath. “Wonderful.”

“No, actually, he asked if I felt safe with you, then told me he did not actually think it a high probability at all. I think he was being a prat and checking on me at the same time. But who knows.” Sherlock looked up at John. “Besides, you’ve not killed me over much worse things.” Sherlock's voice was heavy and slurring, moving all over the place. 

John nodded and looked down where his hand rested on Sherlock’s wrist. “You are hot,” he said as he let go and pressed fingertips to Sherlock’s forehead, “feeling feverish?”

“Little chilly, mostly just tired to be honest. My brother is an imbecile.” Sherlock leaned into the touch and closed his eyes, his voice fading gradually. 

John hummed at that, “Can’t say I don’t agree there” He leaned in, lifting one of Sherlock’s eyelids before pulling the lower one down, studying the conjunctiva.

Sherlock’s physician happened to make his way there just at that time, rapping a knuckle on the door frame as he walked in. “Mr. Holmes, you must have liked us here, back so soon,” he joked as he approached the bed without hesitation.

Sherlock scowled at him, “I missed you all so very much I decided to endanger my life to come see you," John's lips ghosted to a smile at Sherlock's bored irritation, clearly not in the mood to banter. "I want to go home. John informs me this is impossible at present.”

Undeterred, Dr. Walthers pressed on. “Bit too early to send you on your way, Mr. Holmes. You have organ involvement, and while the primary surgery handled the tear in your liver, I’d really rather not stress that one any more. Had a fair amount of blood pooled in your abdominal cavity and we’ve still not got you entirely away from shock, so let’s not push it. How are you feeling today?”

“I feel like I was shot and then bled internally. I hurt, my brain desperately needed to catch up. How do you people function so slowly?” Deep lines worked across Sherlock's face, the tension returned to the corners of his mouth and around his eyes as he struggled with pain. He’d turned his morphine down to the barest setting and it showed. “Cold.”

John piped up then, addressing Walthers, “He’s started sliding over the last half hour, feels feverish.” He went ahead and started bumping up Sherlock’s morphine as he stood at his side, eyes flicking to Sherlock’s heart monitor to watch his slowly increasing pulse. Dr. Walthers began to question Sherlock over his medical history, and John took the moment to walk out into the hall, finding a thermometer from a nurse and bringing it back in. He held it up for Sherlock to see and handed it over.

Dr. Walthers was examining the wound with gloved hands as Sherlock put the thermometer in his mouth. He was sitting on a small rolling stool, overhead light on high so that he could see the incision. “Bit red here, we will up the antibiotics, does feel feverish.”

John did not like that one bit, watching the numbers climb on the thermometer as Sherlock held it between his lips, dragging it out when it beeped. “Thirty-eight, eight,” John relayed as he popped the cover in the trash and moved back to Sherlock’s side.

Sherlock glanced between the two of them. “I’m fine. I feel fine.”

Dr. Walthers hummed as he looked over everything. “Probably just a small infection. We’ll keep an eye on things and get you back to solving cases in no time.” Over the next few minutes he carefully removed Sherlock's sodden bandaging, cleaning the area and setting in on properly wrapping the surgical incision back up under layers of antibiotic ointment and heavy gauze pads. Finally he stood, stripping the gloves off and binning them. “We’ll keep a close eye on that, just in case.”

John had leaned in, getting a look at the wound before it was wrapped. If it was just the local infection, it would heal rapidly. He took up a seat next to Sherlock’s bed and wrapped his hand around Sherlock’s wrist without thinking, thanking Mark as he got up to leave. When they were alone, he spoke softly to Sherlock.

“You start feeling worse, you tell me.”

Sherlock canted his head toward John. “I promise. Tired and somewhat chilled at the moment is all. Nothing else out of the ordinary.” He took to absently tracing his fingertips over John's wrist, cataloging how the bones there felt under the skin. John's voice called his attention back after a moment.

“Can you sleep? I know you’ve been sleeping a lot but this is exactly what you need to be doing, especially if you have an infection. You don’t need food yet, getting it all in those lines of yours, but rest, rest is good.”

Sherlock made a face, “I don’t want to. Haven’t seen this much of you in ages. But I feel exhausted. You should make sure you’re taking care of yourself as well, John. Eating, all that rot you mortals do.” His lips upturned to a faint smile and he squeezed John's wrist gently, watching as John slowly sat down at his bedside. He focused on John, while John was busy keeping his eyes on Sherlock's monitors.

John was silent, listening to Sherlock's heart beat via the soft, nearly inaudible blips on his monitor, the sound matching the slightly rapid pulse under his fingertips.

"I met her in a pub," John spoke so abruptly he nearly startled Sherlock, despite the quite tone he was using. "I was so drunk, I hardly remember it. I'd not had so much as a pint the entire year and then I just… something happened, and I marched to a random pub and started drinking myself stupid, got in one hell of a fight, and Mary put my stupid arse back together on the sidewalk."

Sherlock chuckled, eyes closed as he spoke. "You, in a pub fight. When I wanted a proper pub brawl you wouldn't let me." His mused with a smile. His fingers stroked over John's as they sat there. His movements became softer, slighter as the increased morphine and his need for rest worked in tandem. His voice was heavy with sleep as he spoke again, "Thank you for staying."

John hummed in reply, waiting as Sherlock began to sink down into sleep despite himself. "I'm glad you stayed, too," John whispered when he believed Sherlock asleep. John finally allowed his fingers to slide away from Sherlock's wrist, leaning back in his chair. He sat with a grim set to his face, watching Sherlock as his mind went to Mary. He took his phone out of his pocket and started at the powered down screen, deliberating. Long minutes stretched out into an hour, when his thumb jammed down on the power button, letting the phone finally power up. There were messages waiting for him which he chose not to read, instead sending a pained text to her.

_All I want to know right now is that you are somewhere safe._

His heart was tripping over itself as he sent the message off. He then pulled up Mrs. Hudson's number and closed his eyes as the line rang. When she picked up, obviously recognizing the number and answering with an overly tight voice, calling him _John, dear_ and all but slaying him with her kindness, he closed his eyes and spoke softly. "Mrs. Hudson. I'm… yeah, I'm so sorry about last night. I know I frightened you and I just feel terrible about it. You got caught in the middle of the worst day of my life, and I'm so sorry. I was calling to let you know how Sherlock is."

The conversation stretched out for a full ten minutes, with John's quiet voice growing tighter and progressively unsteady. By the time he hung up his lashes were damp and sticking to one another, his eyes red-rimmed and his throat tight. He set the phone down on his lap and took a moment to breathe without opening his eyes, his chin working to keep his lips steady.

Mary's reply came through just after his phone call with Mrs. Hudson ended.

_I'm safe. I'm at home. I know you don't want to see me, will you let me bring you some clothes to hospital?_

Sherlock twitched in his sleep, Serbian whispered on his lips as his temperature started to creep up. He flinched hard as he shouted in English "No!' He gripped the sheets as he struggled in his sleep, speaking in hasty, unintelligible Pashto with John's name laced through it all. He cried out again, locked in the nightmare.

John set his phone aside, getting to his feet as Sherlock began to move. He did not touch him as his gut twisted, watching Sherlock struggle with the nightmare. His intention was to wait and see if Sherlock pulled up out of it on his own, which was the ideal when it came to these things. However, when Sherlock began to babble in what sounded like broken Pashto, his own name clear on Sherlock's lips, he called out to him. "Sherlock, it's a dream, you're having a dream. Open your eyes, you're okay. Sherlock," he slowly increased the volume of his voice, directly beside the bed without touching him. Sherlock's color had got worse, and he was covered in a thin sheen of sweat, swaths of ashy grey under his eyes making him look incredibly ill.

Sherlock gasped as he woke, staring up at the ceiling as his chest heaved, glassy eyes slowly turning and focusing on John. His Pashto was pained, "You aren't real. A construct of my mind, a desperate act from a snapping brain pulling forward the specter of the only person I've loved." He shook his head. "Everything hurts, John. They keep coming with the whip. I just want to go home."

_Jesus._

John had to take a moment before he could respond, calling up his long dormant Pashto as he reached out and wrapped his hand around Sherlock's wrist, speaking soft and steady in a language that could only sound so fluidly beautiful on Sherlock's lips. "Sherlock, I'm right here with you." He had intended to say more, but the sudden admission of _love_ paired with the inescapable reality of what had been done to him in captivity, stole John's breath away. Sherlock was burning with fever, making John slide his other hand down to the call button, hailing the medical staff. "You're home, I'm right here."

Sherlock's brow furrowed as his brain clicked. "London, not Serbia. Married, Mary, shot. Oh." He closed his eyes as his world righted and things snapped back into place. "London Royal... tore internal stitches." He groaned. "I don't feel well, John." Sherlock looked up to him. "They thought I was crazy, Probably was a little. Talked to you for hours. Knew it wasn't you, but-" The corner of his mouth twitched up.

Mark Walthers came in the door brow knit, "Everything alright, gentlemen?"

John had his eyes up to the monitors, watching Sherlock's heart racing. "He's burning up," he said to Walthers in a tight voice, pressing the backs of his fingers to the underside of Sherlock's jaw, shaking his head at the heat there.

He looked over to the physician, "We need labs and better antibiotics, can you go get a bloods kit?"

Mark swept his eyes over Sherlock and frowned, nodding before moving out of the room to go collect what they needed.

"Sherlock," John said softly, grabbing a set of gloves out of the box on the wall and pulling them on before pulling Sherlock's blanket down, "stay awake for me, okay?" He began to peel back the dressing, holding back any reaction to the livid lines of red threading out from the incision.

"Of course I'm going to stay awake for you, John." Sherlock sounded tired and irritated, "Sleep sounds good though. What's going on?" He looked down and groaned, "Bit not good, that."

Mark came back in with the kit and took up the side opposite John. He kept his face schooled as he looked at the wound, "Just drawing some blood, Sherlock." He handed over sterile swabs to John, "Can you do that part while I draw this?"

Sherlock watched them with detached interest, feeling disconnected and heavy. "I feel like a lorry hit me."

John looked up at Sherlock between careful efforts to clean the wound. The infection was clearly well beyond superficial. Sherlock's eyes were glassy and distant, no hint of the sharp awareness typically there. John set a new dressing to the wound and looked over to Walthers, pointing to the mask on the wall and waiting for him to hand it over. He reached up and took the cannula away from Sherlock's nose, replacing it with the mask. "Slow, deep breaths, Sherlock," he instructed quietly.

Sherlock muttered at John through the mask but obliged him. His eyes grew heavier and he closed them after a few minutes of fighting it. Walthers was on the phone, ordering drugs from the room itself. Sherlock opened his eyes to look at John. "You'll stay? I don't want to be alone." His voice was muffled by the mask and he huffed at it in irritation.

John had a stethoscope in his ears, listening to Sherlock's abdomen as Walthers ordered drugs. He looked up as Sherlock started speaking, his words slurring, twisting something deep in John's belly. He pulled the buds out of his ears and reached down, taking Sherlock's hand. "Not leaving. Keep your eyes open for me, Sherlock. Let's get a handle on this before you sleep again."

He looked over to Walthers, his expression stoic despite the way his heart was racing. This was very, very not good. "Running those stat, yes?"

There was a short, swift bob of Walthers's head as he hung up the phone. He gathered everything they'd taken and stepped into the hall, barking for a nurse. He gave instructions before stepping back inside the room. Walthers stepped back to Sherlock's side and watched him.

Sherlock murmured and pulled the mask away in a fumbling manner. "Be fine, John."

John set his jaw and pushed the mask back in place, holding it there as he watched Sherlock's heart racing. Mark cleared his throat and stepped forward, offering John a cloth, which he pressed gently against Sherlock's forehead in an effort to keep the sweat out of his eyes. "I know you're going to be fine, I'm going to keep you fine. Less talking, more breathing." He was deeply worried, pages of medical texts fanning open in the back of his mind, images of septic abdomens laid open on the autopsy table, rates of necrosis and the swift slide of patients from breathing to dead in case after case report.

"Breathe slow, Sherlock," he whispered, trying to shake off the data he knew all too well.

Sherlock breathed slow and deep for John. He leaned into the touch to his forehead. "Tired." Sherlock fought to keep his eyes open as a nurse bustled in with new medicines.

Walthers and the woman began to swap out Sherlock's hanging medication bags with the new cocktail while Mark explained what was going on. "We're putting him on a broad spectrum, heavy duty antibiotic until we culture exactly what this is and have a better approach. You're going to be staying with him?"

John nodded as he carried on pressing the cloth to Sherlock's face, fear slow twisting in his gut. "I'll be here," he affirmed, calmed slightly by Sherlock's compliance with his breathing.

"You can sleep," he whispered to Sherlock as he leaned in closer, "I'm going to wake you up every so often but you can sleep. I've got you, alright, I'll be right here."

Sherlock leaned his head toward John and closed his eyes, nodding slightly and relaxing at the permission to give in to his exhaustion. He did not take long to fall asleep. His body relaxed bit by bit as he sank deeper into sleep.

When Sherlock was down, Walthers spoke, voice gentle, "You know what's likely going on. We're going to hit this as hard as we can, try to sideline this before it gets a decent hold."

John splayed his hand over Sherlock's chest, right where he could feel Sherlock's heart beating and gauge his breathing. "He's been eating poorly, using, and was recently under a month of bloody torture within the last year. He's strong, but he's not in good condition as it stands." He looked up at Walthers. "What's your name? Just call me John. If you are going to be his primary I'd rather know who you are. He isn't dying from this," John said firmly, as though claiming that reality would secure it. "That's not an option."

"Mark, call me Mark. He has shown a remarkable propensity for survival already. You know the statistics, the odds are not in his favor. though. We're doing everything we can. I think if anyone can fight through this, it's him." Mark watched the monitors for a moment. "Can I get you anything? Call anyone?"

John shook his head. There wasn't anyone to call. He'd leaned so hard on Mary and then she'd potentially killed Sherlock, just like that. The words did little to settle John. Sherlock looked smaller than he'd ever seen him, and it was terrifying. His mind suddenly gifted him, unrequested and unwelcome, with the image of Sherlock's bloodied face on the pavement. The idea of burying him again was beyond what he could handle, and he suddenly had to sit down.

He put his eyes to the monitors, sitting directly up next to the bed, anything he could need for Sherlock if he crashed well within arm's reach.

Mark touched John's shoulder. "Call if you need anything." He slipped from the room and went to ride the lab about getting the results back. Sherlock slept, calmed by John's closeness.

John spent the next few hours doing nothing more than watching Sherlock like a hawk, waking him every half hour just enough to get Sherlock's eyes open, and then settling him back down. As the hours passed John progressively upped how much oxygen they were giving Sherlock as the man's color faded, his fingertips a concerning white and cool to the touch. All this, despite Sherlock's stubborn fever.

When Sherlock had slept for nearly four hours, John wanted to shift him. His lungs were not as clear as they had been and he didn't like him on his back like that. He reached down, rubbing his palm gently on Sherlock's chest. "Hey, Sherlock, open your eyes for me."

It took a few moments for Sherlock to begin to come up. Just rubbed his palm over Sherlock's chest as he watched Sherlock's eyes start to move swiftly behind closed lids. Sherlock groaned, parting his lips and pulling in a few deep breaths as his eyes sluggishly fluttered open, clearly at a great effort. He squinted against the light in the room, face lined deep with discomfort. 

John rubbed at Sherlock's chest again. "Humor me a moment and tell me where you are."

Sherlock continued to gaze at John. "Real?" Pashto, cautious. "I'm tired, let me sleep." He closed his eyes again, breath huffing out as he tried to relax.

John's stomach dropped out as he answered Sherlock in English to see if he could at least understand it. "Look at me, Sherlock, open your eyes. I know you're tired, I need you to look at me. Tell me where you are."

He pressed the button for Mark, not trusting himself to properly doctor as fear wrapped around the base of his skull.

Sherlock looked back to John, "English, you never answered me in English there. Real." His hand fumbled at the mask. He knocked it askew as his fingers tried to work. "Take me home. Am not at Baker Street. Hospital?"

A nurse popped her head in the door, "May I help you?"

John looked over at her, "Walthers, right now please, tell him it's urgent."

John put the mask back on Sherlock's face, keeping his voice calm. "You've got a fever, Sherlock. Try to stay awake with me here a moment, okay?" He touched Sherlock's forehead, closing his own eyes for a moment at how hot the damp skin under his fingertips was. The fever had shot up in the last hour, clearly.

The nurse moved back into the hallway to retrieve Mark as Sherlock looked at John, sighing and immediately wincing as he moved his abdominal muscles, "Hurts, abdomen hurts."

Mark came in a few moments later. Concern written across his face as he moved to the bedside. "John?" He looked over Sherlock, who found the open worry on Mark's face irritating in the extreme.

"Fever shot way up, he's disoriented and confused, didn't know where he was when I woke him up. I'm worried he's going to seize at this rate. I've been bumping the oh-two up but he's still not perfusing well, look at his hands." He bumped up Sherlock's morphine as he spoke, keeping hold of him with one hand in an effort to comfort him.

Sherlock muttered, without any of his normal bite "In the room," he reminded.

Mark nodded and set in on examining him. "We need to pack him in ice. Fever's got to come down." He weighed options as he stood there peering at Sherlock's hands. "We've got to do something. Pack him in ice, possibly sedate him, let his body get some rest. I'd hate to, but-" He shook his head. "What do you think? You're a doctor and his spouse."

John's head ticked to the side at the word spouse, though he shook it off in light of the more pressing matters. He looked at Sherlock's face, studying his features. He looked like he was dying. There was no getting around it. "Sherlock... going to put you to sleep, okay? Going to put you to sleep and fix all of this." He was nodding to Mark even as he was speaking to Sherlock, his heart in his toes.

He waited for Mark to move out of the room, hearing him gather staff and supplies. John moved close, tipping his forehead to Sherlock's as he held his hand. "Don't you go too far in that palace of yours. I need you back here, okay? I- you come back."

Sherlock twined his fingers with John's. His other hand fumbled, knocking the mask off. "I love you. I don't care how I have you in my life. I just want you in it. Make sure you take care of you. Promise." He squeezed John's hand. "Be back up and irritating you before you know it."

John closed his eyes for a moment, forcibly keeping himself from panic. "Hold you to it," he said softly, squeezing Sherlock's hand in return.

Mark came back in with two nurses, sedation already drawn up and a cart ready to go. "Are we ready, gentlemen?"

John leaned back, pulling Sherlock's hand to his lips and brushing Sherlock's knuckles against them. In the next moment he nodded, speaking in soft Pashto to Sherlock. "I love you, you infuriating man. Are you ready?"

Sherlock answered in kind, "Just another adventure. I'll see you when you wake me up. No Sleeping Beauty nonsense. I want to be fully awake if you're going to kiss me." He managed a brief smirk. "I do love you. I'm ready."

John squeezed his hand and looked over to Mark, nodding without trusting himself to speak.

The next half hour was controlled chaos. Sherlock was put under, though not enough to interfere with his breathing, the head of the bed lowered before they began to line him in ice packs. John helped place them under Sherlock's arms and along the inside of his thighs, at the sides of his neck, and the sides of his legs. Nurses hung cool fluids as Mark kept a strict eye on Sherlock's vitals.

John finally spoke in warning as Sherlock's temperature suddenly began to fall, "If he seizes that's going to wreak havoc on his incision, he's all over the place."

"Jesus," Mark was muttering as he yanked ice packs away. "Is he as difficult outside of hospital?" He watched as Sherlock's temp stopped sinking as fast. "Christ, he cannot seize. We can't allow that to happen."

John nodded as he kept his fingers on Sherlock's pulse. One of the nurses had a constant watch on Sherlock's temperature, which slowed its descent as they eased back on the ice. "He- yeah, he is. He was out running through London, which is how this happened. Called his own ambulance when he started to bleed."

Sherlock was scaring the daylights out of him. For a split second, John nearly reached into his pocket to phone Mary, wanting her support. His expression pinched as he remembered himself and he forced himself not to audibly react to the sharp shock of it.

It was another hour before everything was stable. Mark ordered John into his chair once it had been positioned just by the bed. He finally slipped out to do paperwork and take care of a few other things. Another half hour passed before a nurse came in bearing takeaway from John's favorite spot and one of his small bags. "Dr. Watson? Someone dropped this off for you." She settled the food on his tray and handed him the bag.

John frowned at the food, picking it up and walking it to the bin where he all but threw it down. He'd totally forgotten the message on his mobile. He responded to Mary with narrowly contained anger.

_I wouldn't be watching my best friend bloody dying -again- were it not for you. Leave off._

He dragged a hand over his face, finally overwhelmed. In the cool darkness of Sherlock's room, at Sherlock's unconscious side, John leaned forward in his chair with his head in his hands. He was quiet as his shoulders hitched and the patch of jeans below his elbows progressively dampened as grief slid down his cheeks and broke apart on the threads there.

_You'll do neither of you any good if you drive yourself into the ground. I'll leave off though._

John read the text several times, one shaking hand dragging over his face again and again to clear it. The injustice of it all was so overwhelming he could hardly stand it. He set the phone aside, leaning an elbow on his chair and watching Sherlock until sleep reached up and pulled him under.

Sherlock jerked as was dumped back in the padded room with Moriarty, the reek of sweat and fear nauseating before he even stood and faced the bound man. He quietly set his eyes to him, staring at his widely grinning face before he shook his head. "Why am I here again?"

Jim laughed as he moved, heavy chain links rattling together until he'd exhausted the length of his tether, inches from Sherlock's face. "Oh, don't you know, lovey? You're _dying_ again. Isn't it grand? Oh, don't look so sad. It's not all bad." Jim licked his lips and giggled, "You can stay in here with me for as long as that little brain of yours goes. Probably won't short out for a few minutes past your heart stopping for you..."

Sherlock's heart monitor went ballistic. His heart rate was all over the place, dropping in a slow decline until the piercing shriek of v-fib. Moments later, it was again trying to find a productive rhythm, sporadically pulsing properly between fruitless quivering of the muscle. 

John nearly fell out of his chair at the sound of the blaring monitors, eyes snapping open, feet on the ground as he moved out of muscle memory, propelling himself to the bed. He looked to the fluttering readout on the monitor, his heart dropping to his feet. "No, Sherlock, no," he said loudly as he dropped the head of the bed and the rails. Already the lights outside of Sherlock's room were flashing, heralding the code team.

"Sherlock," John growled as he dropped the pillow off the bed, "Not doing this, we are not doing this." Sherlock had stopped breathing, limp and unresponsive, washed a sickly wax-white. John pressed the mask affixed to a blue bag over Sherlock's mouth and nose, holding it tight as he tipped Sherlock's head back and began to breathe for him, "WALTHERS!" He shouted, eyes cutting back to Sherlock's fluttering heart playing with ventricular fibrillation. He needed to be shocked back into a normal rhythm and he damned well needed it now. When a nurse ran in, he began giving orders. 

Mark rushed in with the last of the code team, taking the lead from John, who was swiftly pushed back as they began the controlled chaos of trying to save Sherlock's life.


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock sat with Jim as he giggled. "Oh, he's trying so hard your John, isn't he? Won't let you go." Jim clicked his tongue as the lights overhead dimmed. "Oh dear me, they're shocking you. Pretty bad, Sherlock. Can you hang on? Or do you want to come with me?"

Sherlock glared at Jim as he laughed, "Shut up, Jim..."

Jim giggled wildly as the lights dimmed again, flickering in the horrifying cell. "Goodness. You're giving them a fit."

Sherlock rubbed at his chest as the walls in the room swelled.

Jim looked around, head swaying in a broad 'no' pattern, "Breathing for you too. Sherlock, Sherlock... you're a mess. John's little _wife_ did this to you. Bet that hurt."

John refused to panic, it wasn't going to happen. _No_. He told Mark to hold off so that he could get an airway now that Sherlock had a few shocks already, swiftly getting a tube down Sherlock's trachea, securing placement and snapping the bag to the end of the airway he'd put directly down into Sherlock's airway. Nurses secured the tube with tape and a tied strip of gauze as John bagged Sherlock, _compress - whoosh - hold- release... compress - whoosh - hold - release_ , watching the paddles charge for a third time as Mark mostly controlled the code. 

Sherlock's back arched off the bed, following the paddles. He dropped back down as the frantic toning of the monitor leveled out. Mark breathed a sigh of relief as Sherlock's heart settled into a sinus rhythm. "Right, I want him moved to ICU, John keep bagging. You," he pointed to a nurse at John's side, "make sure there's a vent waiting for us there, he's still not wanting to breathe."

Sherlock rest back against the grimy, padded wall next to Jim, the freezing stone floor under him leaching the heat from his trousers.

"It's stopped." Jim grinned, "Your little live-in, oh wait, not anymore. Your _doc-tor_ ," he clicked his tongue, mocking the shift in John and Sherlock's relationship, "must have saved you... for now."

John’s jaw was set tight as he walked with the team, breathing for Sherlock, starring ahead as they traveled the halls. He refused to think outside of Sherlock’s medical condition. It took, what John estimated to be, half an hour to get Sherlock settled into his new bed. They were ready to hook Sherlock to a ventilator when John held up his finger, taking the tube from the machine in one hand as he detached the bag from the tube in Sherlock’s airway with the other. He leaned in close, whispering to him, desperate for Sherlock to respond.

“Come on, Sherlock,” he said under his breath, watching Sherlock’s face and willing him to take a breath. He spoke in soft Pashto, using the language for privacy. “Sherlock, breathe for me, come on. I’m right here. Breathe.” 

He waited, his guts twisted into knots until the monitors chirped their warnings. John’s jaw tightened as he stood back up straight. The vent tubing was attached to the endotracheal tube jutting out between Sherlock's lip and John watched Sherlock’s chest rise with the first mechanical breath. He looked up at Mark, drawn and pale, knowing this was the first step in the process of losing to sepsis. 

Mark put a hand on John’s shoulder, “He’s proven he can fight. We’ll keep him going, let him fight this off. John, have you got anyone you can call for support? Having a spouse in these kinds of conditions… I don't need to tell you know how hard it is. You need people you can lean on.”

John scrubbed a hand over the back of his neck, cracking a smile that swiftly shifted to something sad and brittle. “I’m not his spouse, actually. He likes to do this sort of thing. As it happens, my-” he snapped his jaw shut, going pale. He’d nearly just told this bloody stranger that his wife had been the one to do this to Sherlock. He cleared his throat and tried to cover his tracks. “I have been his closest friend for years. My wife and I are going… going through a separation, bit of a mess, that. I don’t know if she’d want to be here, but there is Molly Hooper, down in the morgue at Bart's. She… yeah she might…” he shrugged and looked back to Sherlock. 

“Got a lot of odds stacked against him.” 

Mark nodded, though he was a bit surprised with the revelation that John was not married to Sherlock. “My apologies… your wedding band- I assumed. You seem to care for him a very great deal. I’ll contact Ms. Hooper. Ah, is there next of kin for Mr. Holmes then?” He loathed even asking, much preferring to keep John as Sherlock's medical authority.

John shook his head. Like hell was he going to bring up Mycroft, and he knew given Sherlock’s last stint that he was listed as Sherlock’s emergency contact. “I’ve medical authority, paperwork is in the record. It’s just me.” He stepped closer to Sherlock, sliding his hand over the back of his. Sherlock was still hot, the infection ravaging at him, seeping into his tissues and stressing Sherlock's already severely taxed immune system. John could picture the bacteria, mentally watch as they penetrated the walls of Sherlock's healthy cells, swelling up Sherlock's belly. Sometimes, it was no good at all to be a physician. 

Mark watched John and nodded, “Right then, normally ICU has strict visiting hours. Given your profession, and this situation, I don't think those need apply to you. I’ll tell them to leave you alone and then ring for Mrs. Hooper if you've a number to Bart's morgue. He’s a fighter. If you need anything, have them page me. Even if it’s an off the wall suggestion. I’m going to go finish rounds. I’ll be back when I’m done to check on him.”

John nodded, whispering his thanks as he took a step back from Sherlock, watching the vast number of monitors. He dragged a hand over his face. He might not be willing to tell the hospital about Mycroft, but it would be nothing short of terrible on his part not to alert him. He stood at the foot of Sherlock’s bed, a hand on Sherlock’s toes over the blankets, as he pulled out his mobile with shaking fingers and dialed the memorized number, listening to it ring. 

“John, what a surprise. Has Sherlock thrown you out?” Mycroft sounded tired as he answered his phone.

John closed his eyes as he lightly squeezed Sherlock’s foot. “There’s been an incident,” John said roughly, hollowing his cheeks for a moment in an effort to keep his eyes dry. 

Mycroft sat up at his desk, “John, what kind of incident?” His voice was strained as he started packing his case. “I’m on my way, tell me everything.”

John opened his eyes to look at Sherlock, speaking softly. “Mycroft, there isn’t much you could do from here. He’s suffered a massive infection and is,” he pulled in a sharp breath, “septic now. His heart stopped. He’s somewhat stabilized in the ICU right now, not breathing on his own, though. I’ve let the hospital know I have medical authority, so you don’t need to worry much about that.” 

Mycroft was silent for so long the call appeared to have dropped. When he did speak again it was quiet, “Should I inform our parents, John? In your medical opinion, should they be informed?”

John hummed into the line, watching Sherlock, knowing the last people he wanted in attendance was his family. He closed his eyes, mentally carding through all the detached medical data he had, much slower than Sherlock or Mycroft would have managed. When placed simply as a patient in the condition Sherlock was in, without the ‘Sherlock’ factor, as it were, he had very poor odds. 

“Any other patient I’d be giving odds in the ballpark of thirty percent for survival.” 

Mycroft paused, letting his eyes fall closed at John's words. When he spoke again, his voice was rougher than usual. “We must bear in mind that this is Sherlock. He is the most stubborn man I've encountered. If he has a mind to live, that greatly increases his odds. I want updates as often as you can give them. I will not yet inform our parents. However, if he does not begin breathing on his own soon, I will, as much as he would loathe it.” Mycroft sighed as he paused. “Thank you, John.”

John's breath rushed out of him at the unexpected gratitude and he struggled to keep his voice steady. “Oh Jesus, please don’t thank me,” John breathed into the line. He pinched a thumb and pointer to the bridge of his nose, wincing as though in physical pain as he inhaled sharply. He swiftly dropped his hand away, clearing his throat and looking back at Sherlock. 

“I’ll keep in touch. He was in good spirits when he was sedated, before this all… well. Take that as you will.”

“I will be in touch soon. Goodbye, John.” The line went dead, leaving John in the quiet room with only the clicking hiss of the ventilator breathing for Sherlock.

Nearly an hour later a soft voice called out from the doorway. “John?” Molly stood there chewing on her lower lip, her eyes shifting from Sherlock buried under endless tubing, and the pale man standing at the foot of his bed.

John kept hold of Sherlock’s feet, turning his head and looking over his shoulder. “We’ve had a bad day,” he said quietly, nearly losing his composure at the sight of her. He turned back to Sherlock, his thumbs working nervous circles over the blanket covering Sherlock’s toes. 

Molly moved to his side and looked over Sherlock. “Anytime you need sleep, or a break, you call me and I'll come sit with him. I know that you don’t want to leave him… not pressuring you to, but you’re going to need rest eventually. Am happy to help in any way I can. It's not a long trip from Bart's.”

John nodded, looking over at Molly for a moment before cutting his eyes away. It had only been a month, one sodding _month_ since the wedding. “Close that door for me, will you Molly?” He asked, tipping his head to the door, his heart racing in his chest. 

Molly narrowed her eyes in confusion, though she complied and moved to the door, closing it softly. She walked back over to him, putting a soft hand on John's shoulder and gently squeezing. “John? Are you okay?”

John’s words nearly fell over themselves as he spoke. She was the most trustworthy among them, capable of holding a secret despite incredible pressure. His voice was a rushed puff of air, the words hardly having shape as he vocalized his reality for the first time to someone outside the three of them. “Mary shot him, it was Mary, my Mary.” His knees threatened to go on him, his face pinching as he looked to the floor, breath shaking in and out of his lungs. 

Molly stood in stunned silence before she wrapped an arm around John’s waist and eased him to the chair at Sherlock’s bedside. Molly crouched in front of John. “Mary? Mary Watson… Our Mary?" She nearly asked why, nearly asked what on _earth_ could have happened to make that woman pull a gun on Sherlock. What would have put a gun in Mary's hand in the first place. Only John looked ready to faint and Molly was not sure she wanted to know. She cleared her throat and squeezed his knee. "I cannot begin to comprehend what you must be going through. Does Sherlock know? Of course he knows, it was from the front. John, I’m so sorry.”

John started in on the whole story, just letting it spill out, knowing without a doubt that he could trust Molly to keep his secrets. “He’s…” John cleared his throat for the thousandth time, “this is _bad_ , Molly I-” he blinked rapidly and looked back to Sherlock, hardly believing what he was seeing despite having worked life back into Sherlock himself, dropping a tube between vocal chords that he so often listened to. His eyes pinched shut and he shook his head, "I can't lose him again, I can't." 

Molly shook her head. “He’s Sherlock. If anyone can get through this, it’s him. Trite, but true.” Molly watched John as he kept his eyes on Sherlock. “Keep talking to him. If he’ll stick around for anyone, it will be you.”

He looked over to Molly again, his heart in his throat, narrowly keeping himself from breaking down. “He told me…” he cracked a smile that did not touch his eyes, a forced, bitter thing, “that Mary was the way she was because I chose her. I chose her. I love her, god help me. She’s pregnant. _Pregnant_. Look what she’s done to him. I just got him back, just... she knew what happened to me when he was…” he shut off, looking back at Sherlock and dragging a hand over his mouth. 

Molly put a hand on his knee. “He’s going to be okay, John. He’s going to be okay. He has to be.” She looked up to Sherlock. “You hear that? We won’t stand for anything else.”

John nodded, closing his eyes. “I didn’t know if you’d… yeah if it was a good idea to get you. I just-" He cleared his throat, nodding to her,"Thank you for coming, Molly. I’ve let Mycroft know already, so… he can make his choices as to what he wants done.”

Molly nodded. “I will be here for anything you need, John. Have you eaten yet?”

John shook his head, “I’ll just toss it back, Molly. I don’t imagine I’ll be doing much eating today. I’ve not had a chance to get my head around all of this.” He leaned forward, reaching around Mary, taking Sherlock’s hand and sandwiching it between his smaller palms. He watched the mechanical rise and fall of his chest. “Thank you for coming. I- not really anyone else, yeah? I’ll- I’ll keep you updated.” 

Molly squeezed his knee and stood up. “You text me if you need me.” She moved and kissed Sherlock’s cheek. “You get better. I mean it.” She touched his foot on the way out.

John closed his eyes when Molly left, leaning forward and letting go of Sherlock’s hand. He folded his arms over the mattress just at Sherlock’s side and rest his head down, breathing deep, one foot sliding forward to rest under the bed. “You told me you’d come back. You’ve _got_ to come back. I can’t do this.” John felt his chin quiver on him and he closed his mouth, focusing on his breathing, slowly dropping down into an exhausted sleep. 

Jim cackled as he listened to John. “He got _married_ to the woman who shot you and he still carries on like this? Oh, that’s rich Sherlock. You’re my very own soap opera. Look at you, trapped in here with me. Oooh, Sherlock, what if you never wake up? What if you get to stay with me for _ever_? Wouldn’t that be fun?”

Sherlock held his hands over his head, unable to even consider the thought, covering his ears in a desperate grip, “Shut up, shut up, _shut up!_ ”

The room rattled around them and Jim giggled, “Get angry, Sherlock, that’s it.”

Mark came by with printouts from the ventilator several hours later. He spoke as he knocked lightly on the door frame. “John, hate to wake you, I have something though.”

John sat up slowly, blinking and scrubbing a hand over his face. He stood up and looked over Sherlock, checking his watch, heart sinking. It had been hours. He turned to Mark, “Yeah,” he said, voice rough with sleep. 

Mark dragged the little stool over and put the printouts on the bed just below Sherlock’s hand. “This is the data from the vent.” Mark started flipping through it. “See the highlights? That’s not the machine. It’s nothing regular… but it’s something.” He pushed the papers toward John so he could have a better look.

John took at the information, familiar with the readout. “Three times in one hour is more artifact than progress, but yeah, I suppose it’s something,” John said heavily. He looked up at Sherlock, his chest aching. “This… yeah, it’s something. It’s something.” 

His thoughts were far more negative, but if Sherlock could at all hear, well, he wasn’t going to say it aloud. Mark would know as well as he did what the significance of the readout was. 

Jim fell over in his straight jacket, mad laughter bubbling up and spilling over with glee. “He doesn’t even believe you’re trying. This is beautiful. All your sad little efforts are wasted.”

Sherlock glared at him, leaning back on the padded walls far out of the reach of Jim's chains. “Oh _shut up_! Why do I have to suffer with _you_? Couldn’t it be someone I can actually tolerate? It’s _my_ mind!” Sherlock snapped at Jim as he glared at him.

“Sweetheart. Your precious little _friends_ would coddle you. Me? Your brain knows I’ll make you want to fight… so fight, Sherlock, go ahead.” He stood up and leaned forward, presenting a cheek. “Right here.” He blew a kiss to Sherlock from his position, teasing him.

Sherlock moved forward in tight rage. He swung a fist, connecting with Jim’s cheek with a satisfying crack.

Jim laughed, giddy with the pain as he spun and hit the wall.

In front of John and Mark, Sherlock took a deep, unassisted breath against the ventilator.

John moved, going to Sherlock’s side and grabbing up his hand. He scrubbed his palm over the backs of Sherlock’s knuckles, calling out to him. “That’s it, Sherlock, do that again. Do that again, Sherlock,” he was speaking in steady Pashto, noting that Sherlock responded well to that language. He leaned in and lifted an eyelid, peering into Sherlock’s eye for a moment, not getting much reaction. “Sherlock, come on, come on.”

Mark watched, holding his own breath in hopes that Sherlock would take another for John. The man was clearly in love. He wondered to himself if Sherlock was the reason John was separating from his wife. 

Jim moaned to Sherlock, “Do it again. Come on, hit me, I _like_ it.” Sherlock snarled and dove at him, trying to choke him despite the massive collar around his neck. Jim cackled as they went rolling about the floor.

Sherlock took another breath, shallower this time, but unassisted all the same. In his head he collapsed beside Jim, breathing violently.

Jim clicked his tongue. “Wore yourself out. It’s okay darling, you’ll last longer next time.”

John held tight to Sherlock’s hand, waiting with baited breath for Sherlock to breathe. Seconds ticked by, slowly bleeding into minutes. He exhaled after a while, his chin unsteady as he slid his fingers through Sherlock’s hair, whispering softly. “That’s okay… that’s- that’s okay.” 

He cleared his throat, dragging a hand over his eyes before looking to the monitors. He gave a single, sharp nod. “Well… that- there were two. I- he’s,” John cleared his throat as his voice dragged down rough and heavy, his gut twisting. 

“John, that was two in a row. One of them- he had to work for that second one and he only did it after you spoke to him in- well was that Arabic? My language skills consist of English and French.” Mark gave a small shrug. “He’s a fighter. You keep reminding him he can do this.”

John nodded, carrying on with his hand in Sherlock’s hair and holding his hand. He spoke to Mark absently, "Pashto, actually," before he leaned in closer to Sherlock. He spoke softly to him, “Rest, and then we are going to do that again, okay? We are going to do that again.” 

He straightened back up and watched the monitors, aching desperately for Sherlock to come back. He checked his watch. God, it had been a long time. 

Mark spoke, keeping his voice soft. “You should rest too. Give me a minute and I’ll see if I can’t convince them to swap that chair out for a recliner. Alright?” He patted John’s shoulder and stepped out into the hall. A few minutes later a nurse stepped in, “If you’ll step out here, we’ll swap these out.” Not long after, a much more comfortable chair was waiting for John. Mark came back down the hall with a paper sack and a bottle of water. 

When John had taken back up his post beside the bed, Mark put the sack on the table with the water. “Some crisps, an apple, and a bit of tinned fruit. It’s leftover from my lunch, I only had time to grab the sandwich, but it’s here if you think you can handle it at some point. Get some rest, most importantly. It’s been a rough time of it. Keep talking to him when you’re awake. I’m headed home. The on-call doc is good. He’ll call me in if something changes for Sherlock, I’ve asked him to. But in an emergency, god forbid, he’s damn good.”

John nodded, staring at the sack for a moment before looking back to Sherlock. He waited until Mark left the room to get on the phone with Mycroft, already delinquent in calling him. He held Sherlock’s hand, sliding his thumb over Sherlock’s knuckles as the line rang, starting to feel grungy in his clothes. That was going to have to be dealt with. 

“Has he taken a turn for the worse?” Mycroft’s voice was full of genuine concern.

John shook his head, speaking softly. “No, he’s mostly the same. Tried to take a few breaths, just… mostly the same. I’d realized I’d not updated you, and thought that a call was better suited to this over text.” 

Mycroft gave a hum. “At least he’s trying… it’s a good sign, isn’t it?”

“I- yeah… yeah, surely it must be,” he replied slowly, keeping his hand in Sherlock’s. Optimism was difficult for him in this, he’d seen so many people go down from it. “I… cautiously optimistic, how about that?”

“Better than convinced of doom.” Mycroft took a deep breath, “Thank you for the update. Can I send you anything?”

John hummed and nodded, "Actually yeah. I need clothes and my shave kit from home. Could you have someone drop that off for me? Few days of it at the least, I can figure out how to launder things later. Otherwise no, I'm okay. I'll let you know when there is a change." 

"Do not worry about laundering. I will have someone come by and collect things from you and have them cleaned. You need only concentrate on Sherlock. Get some rest, John. You sound exhausted. Your things will be delivered soon." Mycroft had already shoved a piece of paper with instructions on it to Anthea.

John nodded to himself and thanked Mycroft before ringing off. He put the phone back on the armrest of the recliner and settled his hip next to Sherlock's on the bed, leaning forward and sliding his fingers through Sherlock's hair with one hand, the other on his own knee, squeezing tight. "I'm still right here with you, Sherlock. Rest tonight, I'll start fussing at you in the morning to try that whole breathing thing again. I'm going to be quiet, trying to sleep a little myself, but I've got your hand, okay?"

He touched Sherlock's cheek and then moved off the bed, settling into the recliner at Sherlock's side. They'd bound up his hands in case he came awake with ideas of pulling out the breathing tube, and John was determined to keep their fingers touching in case he came awake frightened or confused. 

A man slipped into the room toting John's bag he'd refused from Mary along with another one. He placed them just inside the door. Atop them was a new tablet. A note was penned from Mycroft.

_John,_

_On this tablet you will find the same type of charting software you use in your clinic. I have a direct link to where it saves on a secure server. If you would, or want to, please chart Sherlock's progress. I thought it might give you something to do and when it is difficult to speak about things, you would not have to._

_MH_

Jim hummed an old Irish lullaby as he sat with Sherlock. "You should rest while you have the chance, dearie."

Sherlock's huff of annoyance was the only answer.

"Your little doctor. Oh, _Sherlock_ , he loves you and he _still_ knocked her up and got married. But I suppose all is well. He's here with you."

Sherlock closed his eyes, defeated and exhausted. "Do shut up. Go to sleep or something. You're as annoying and pedantic in my mind as you were in life." Sherlock snapped at him.

Jim's face dropped into an O of surprise and hurt. " _Rude_ , Sherlock. What would Mummy say?"

All through the night, Sherlock's monitors were quiet, the hum and whoosh of the ventilator the only noise.

John snapped awake any time the staff came in to care for Sherlock, which was once an hour at the most reserved, and several times an hour when Sherlock's temperature wavered. He managed a brittle sleep, never letting go of Sherlock's hand. It was just shy of six in the morning when the dawn patrol came around, Sherlock's lights snapping on as a physician and his gaggle of students came in the room without apology. 

He held tight to Sherlock's hand as the primary physician began to prattle off Sherlock's condition to the bright-eyed students. John stood up and cut him off at _anticipated expiration_.

"Enough. Enough. Get out, all of you out. _OUT_!" He'd not meant to shout, but the look he'd got -that _poor stupid family member_ look- sent rage coursing through his gut and he was going to kill them all. 

The primary physician leveled a look at John that made him want to kill things, and he ticked his head to the side and shot him his best _try me_ expression. The room was cleared in the next few seconds, leaving John's hand trembling as he looked back at Sherlock, never having let go of his hand, speaking softly. "Bunch of idiots, that lot. Pay no mind to them. I'm still right here, and you are going to be okay." 

Sherlock listened to Jim as the man paced back and forth. "Look at you, all tied up to machines. You're _pathetic_. Can't even die properly. I can't believe I ever thought you were a challenge. You're weak."

Rage coursed through Sherlock as he shoved to his feet. "Shut up." 

Jim giggled. "Oh, did I hurt your feelings? Look at you, all torn up over your precious little doctor." He stumbled back as Sherlock shoved him, grinning. "Oh, come on love, you can do better than that."

Sherlock screamed at him as he attacked.

Sherlock's fingers twitched against John's hand. His body gave a small shudder as he fought the ventilator for a brief moment. The tubes moved as Sherlock’s head tugged against them before stilling again. Sherlock’s chest rose and fell without assistance twice in a row

John put a hand to Sherlock's side on the mattress, watching as Sherlock obviously fought. He leaned in, one hand on the side of Sherlock's face, avoiding the tubes. "That's it, Sherlock, I saw that. I saw that." He rubbed at Sherlock's chest, ignoring the mechanical rise and fall, holding tight to Sherlock's hand. He'd not yet noticed the clothes and tablet from Mycroft, hardly awake until Sherlock's fingers twitched, spiking adrenaline across him. 

Jim was cackling madly as Sherlock bounced his head off the padded wall, "Sherlock, oh you're a riot." Sherlock landed a blow to his gut and he grinned even as he doubled over.

Sherlock's hand squeezed John's for a moment as he breathed once more on his own. He outwardly stilled as inside his mind he slid down the wall beside Jim, breathless and exhausted.

Jim leaned against him giggling, "Oh lovey, have to build your endurance up, this _premature_ finish is getting a bit old."

John nodded as Sherlock went still once again, "Good work, Sherlock, good work. Try again later." He stared at Sherlock, touching his fevered face softly before leaning back and dragging a hand over his lips. He looked around the small ICU room, eyes falling to the bag by the door. He slowly let go of Sherlock, "I'm still here," he said softly as he went over and picked up the bag. He read the note on the tablet and then dug for the charger for his phone. He thumbed through the drive and plugged it in near Sherlock's head, soft symphonic music playing through the small speakers, but it was better than silence.

He then sat down in the recliner with the tablet, exhausted as he entered in the data from the morning, documenting vitals and the effort Sherlock gave at breathing. Finally he got up and left the room long enough to change and brush his teeth, gone less than ten minutes before returning to Sherlock's side. 

An hour passed before Mark came by. He cleared his throat as he stepped into the room. "I had a complaint about a family member in here..." The corner of his mouth turned up. "His room is off limits to students now. They still have access to his charts, of course, but I've asked they leave off. He's a notorious arsehole. Sorry he was in here like that. I've not had a chance to look over the reports from last night. Wanted to check on you first."

John had been staring at Sherlock in a daze, turning tired eyes to Mark. "They said 'anticipated expiration,' and that was the end of my polite restraint." His voice was low and rough, for too many things, too heavy, to critical weighing on his mind. He looked back at Sherlock and took in a deep breath. "Tried again with the breathing this morning. Abdomen’s a bit firmer than it was yesterday. Don't like that. Otherwise, not much of a change. He's there though, and I think at times can honestly hear."

"I don't blame you. Sorry you had to suffer him. I'll send ultrasound up. We won't move him." Mark watched the monitors. "I think he probably can. We're not sedating him anymore. He's on pain medication but- well he's sedating himself enough without our help."

Mark cleared his throat. "I've got about twenty minutes. I need to look over charts. I can sneak in here and do it if you want to go to the lounge and grab a shower. Take a few minutes for yourself. There's decent coffee and some doughnuts in there."

"I'm fine," John assured, shaking his head. "Had a change of clothes and all that." He sighed and shifted in his chair, "Just going to try and catch a few, might help. I checked his belly two hours ago, so… yeah, ultrasound is a good… god I'm tired. Sorry, this… better for you to uh, just don't take my word for things right now, alright? I'm not fit to practice at the moment." He hated it, but it was the truth. 

Mark checked Sherlock over, pressing against his abdomen as he did. "Not a problem. He is more firm than I'd like. I'll have ultrasound up as soon as I can, it will probably be a few hours though. Sleep while you can. I'll be back around after they've had a chance to come through and I have the results. Might try to catch them while they're here so I can watch. Sleep, John."

John reached out and took Sherlock's hand, leaning forward and resting his head on the bed. "Alright," he muttered into the crook of his elbow, crushingly tired. He wasn't thinking properly, mind moving in a thousand directions, thoughts scattering away without purpose. He fell asleep before Mark left the room, his fingers twisted around Sherlock's.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So glad you are all enjoying this so much. Your comments have made our respective days!


	4. Chapter 4

Mark asked that everyone stay out of the room and monitor remotely until ultrasound got there. He sat charting at the main station, one eye on Sherlock's monitors until his mobile rang. Mycroft Holmes was on the other end, and soon Mark's entire attention was to the call. Sherlock and John were left undisturbed for closing in on four hours before there was a knock on the door frame. "Sorry to disturb, we've orders to do an ultrasound."

John sat up slowly, his head throbbing, still holding on to Sherlock's fingers. He nodded to them as he blinked, scrubbing a hand over his face. He hadn't bothered to shave, light stubble dusting his jaw. He stood up, checking his watch, suddenly very thirsty. He needed to hydrate, if nothing else. He'd wait until after the ultrasound to see about getting something to eat and drink, hands shaking from his poor self care. "Idiot," he whispered to himself under his breath. 

Mark came in as the ultrasound techs set up. He smiled to John. "Did you get some rest at least?" He leaned in the doorway, watching as Sherlock was prepped.

John nodded as his eyes went to Sherlock's discolored abdomen, his heart sinking. "Oh, Jesus," he breathed, leaning forward and reaching out to brush his fingers over the purpled discoloration there. Sherlock was hot to the touch again and his pulse was up, though not dangerously so. He looked over to Mark and then back, swallowing around the lump in his throat. 

Mark nodded and gestured for the ultrasound to start. He moved to John's side and put a hand on his shoulder, watching with him as they took in the whole area. The techs were thorough as they documented everything.

In the end, they mostly got a look at a large amount of blood and interstitial fluid in the abdominal cavity. Nothing surprising in a case of sepsis. Likely he'd need a drain if it didn't resolve soon. John closed his eyes and slowly sat back down as Sherlock was cleaned up and the cart taken away. "Textbook," he whispered, "all of this is textbook." Which was decidedly not good, but there was little that could be done outside of the measures already taken. Sherlock would survive, or he would not. 

John's stomach twisted, leaving him feeling nauseated and gutted. 

Mark took a deep breath. "I will have a friend of mine on standby for a drain. I'd like to give him a bit longer to resolve on his own. Have faith, John. Have faith in him. The fact that he's fighting the machine, even just occasionally, means he's trying. Keep talking to him."

Sherlock leaned against Jim and sighed. "I am tired." 

Jim clicked his tongue, "They will destroy him if you leave him." He sang his words.

Sherlock hissed as his arm drew back, lashing out and suddenly catching Jim open-handed across the face, snapping the smaller man's head to the side. 

Sherlock's fingers squeezed tight around John's hand, fingertips pressing _one, two, three, one, two, three_ before the man stilled again.

Jim giggled. "He's still here Johnny boy. I'll keep him safe for you... You really ought to try this jacket, Sherlock. It's quite comfortable."

John held tight to Sherlock's fingers, encouraged by the obviously intentional move. "I know he's trying, I'm not giving up on him," John said tiredly, "wouldn't be here if that was the case. I've already watched him die once, that's all he gets." He rest his head back down on the mattress beside Sherlock's hip, holding his hand, sick at his stomach and exhausted. 

"If one of your nurses has time to drop off a water, I'd really appreciate it," he said with his eyes closed, cheek on the bedding. 

"Could I convince you to eat some broth and crackers if they were brought too?" Mark watched the pair of them. The way Sherlock responded to John's distress was amazing. He'd seen so many cases like this go bad, a family member became distressed and the fight went out of the patient. Sherlock appeared to surge up any time John wavered.

John nodded against the bedding, Sherlock's fingers in his hand resting against his forehead. "Yeah," he whispered, his hair askew and his back tense. He was exhausted beyond measure, the weight of the entire situation pulling him down past his typical abilities. It didn't help to know that Sherlock found this his fault, didn't help to know that he'd brought this all on their heads. Had he just been _smart_ when Mary came his way…

Mark touched a finger to John's shoulder in reassurance and slipped out.

Fifteen minutes later Molly's soft voice rang out. "John? Was popping by to check. Found his doctor. Asked me to bring you this..." She set the small tray on the table. 

John slowly sat up, wincing and pinching fingers to his eyes to ease the throbbing behind them. He turned to look at her, eyes touching on the food. "Yeah, 'm fine. Thanks for bringing that," he said roughly, swallowing and getting to his feet. He dragged his hand over his hair and looked over to Sherlock. "Tried squeezing my hand a few times today, so that's good. I think he can hear, if you want to talk to him."

Molly smiled as she moved to the other side of the bed. She was gentle as she touched his hair. "You keep fighting, you hear me? Had an interesting case yesterday, you would have liked it..."

Jim rolled his eyes. "Oh _her_. Do you know she made me watch _Glee_? Oh, of course you know that. You read her blog. Sherlock, that's _adorable_." 

Sherlock glared at him, "I am tired, must you press me right now?" 

Jim giggled and blew a kiss to Sherlock. The small madman huffed as Sherlock landed a blow to his midsection before collapsing down against the wall.

Molly watched Sherlock take a fighting breath against the machine. "Oh!" She petted his hair again, "There you are. I'll shut up and let you get some rest then."

John had gone back to his chair, trying to get the skin off the orange with shaking hands. He closed his eyes, breathing deep in an effort to steady himself. When he couldn't manage it, he set the bloody thing aside and picked up a cracker, snapping it and slipping a bite into his mouth. He kept his eyes from Molly, just trying to maintain. 

"Yeah he's… he's trying. He's really trying. Lot of swelling in his belly, he-" John stopped talking then, his chest catching with grief. He set the rest of the cracker down and pressed the heels of his hands to his eyes, breathing tight and as steady as he could manage. 

Molly moved back around the bed. "Oh, John." She wrapped John to her, tucking his head against her stomach. Her fingers carded through his short hair. Molly handled him as though she were comforting a small child, but her voice was strong. "I know the odds, but Sherlock never has been normal, now has he? Not likely to start now."

John leaned into Molly, not bothering to move his hands. "I brought in a woman who gut shot my-" he shook his head against the soft of her belly. “I did this. I _did this_. I was supposed to be alone, and I couldn't accept-" he clipped off, his chest caving for a moment in an effort not to openly sob, eyes burning as guilt choked him. 

Molly teared up as she smoothed her hand over John's hair. "This is not your fault. You were not supposed to be alone. None of this is your fault, John. Not a bit of it. He's going to pull through and you two are going to be driving me mad. He's not allowed in my workplace as a- as a patient. He's not. He knows it."

John dropped his hands away from his eyes, though he did not pull away from Molly. He kept his head to her belly, burning eyes closed against the terrible reality of his life. “If she wasn’t pregnant… god, she’s pregnant… and I’m such a desperate man that I still love her Molly, _I still love her_. What’s _wrong with me_?” He shook his head and choked down his distress. He was beyond exhausted, pushed to his limit. “She… all those people I protected him from and it was my _wife_ …”

“John,” Molly had no magic words, but she did the best she could. “Of course you still love her. She’s still Mary, she’s still your wife and still pregnant with your child.” She rubbed between John’s shoulder blades.

Sherlock listened to Jim giggle and ramble something about John. He threw himself against the door, “Let me out! _Let me out_!” Sherlock pounded on padded metal, wanting the damned thing to swing open under his fists. He had to tell John it was okay. John couldn’t push himself like this.

Molly looked up as Sherlock struggled against the vent again. She released John in surprise.

John’s damp eyes snapped open at the little blips from the ventilator and he got to his feet, moving to Sherlock’s side. His own heart was hammering against his ribs as he reached down with a shaking hand and wrapped his fingers around Sherlock’s wrist. 

“Sherlock,” he breathed in question, eyes first to Sherlock’s face and then to the monitors. 

Sherlock’s fingers splayed where John held his wrist. In his head he beat on the door harder. “Sod this! Let me _out_!” His cheeks were damp as he pounded on the door.

John watched with bated breath as a tear slid from the corner of Sherlock's eye, vanishing in the line of gauze anchoring the tube in his mouth.

Jim clicked his tongue, “Oh dear me. Look at you. He still loves the woman who shot you and you’re _crying_ over him. Honestly… boring.”

Sherlock snarled at Jim to shut up as he rattled the door harder. 

Jim shook his head in mock pity. “Going to wear yourself out.”

Molly put a hand over her mouth as she watched.

John took hold of Sherlock’s fingers as soon as he felt them moving, threading them with his own. His palm slid down the side of Sherlock’s face and he spoke swiftly to him, “It’s alright, Sherlock, it’s okay. You’re okay,” he encouraged, eyes cutting to the monitors and then back to Sherlock. “I’m right here with you, you’re okay,” and what a lie that was. 

He held Sherlock’s hand up close to his own chest, as far as the restraints would allow, thumb working along the side of his hand. 

Sherlock’s frantic efforts stopped as John started speaking. Before he slid down the door in defeat, Sherlock squeezed John’s hand tightly. 

Jim shook his head. “Poor little Sherlock. He’s dying and John Watson’s powerless to stop it.”

Sherlock shoved to his feet even though he was exhausted. “Not dead, not dying. Piss. Off.”

Jim grinned, “That’s it Sherly, get angry.”

John felt Sherlock go lax, still holding his hand, leaning over him, palm pressed to the side of his face. He remained there, frozen in place, hardly able to make himself breathe. He listened to everything even out, the hateful normalcy that made it seem as though Sherlock had not just been struggling, as though he wasn’t still in there. 

His mouth worked for a moment, silent words that he couldn’t give sound to as his throat closed off. The injustice of it all was nearly more than he could handle. His fingers slid into Sherlock’s curls and he closed his eyes, fighting hard to keep his cheeks dry. 

Molly wiped at her eyes and moved to John’s side. She rubbed his shoulder, her voice was quiet. “You should get some rest again. He’s fighting hard to come back to you. Rest while he does.”

John pulled in a deep, shuddering breath and leaned back, slowly lowering Sherlock’s hand back to the bed, his hands shaking as though he was freezing. He took a step back and nodded, trying to regain himself. “Thank you f-for coming, Molly,” he breathed, spots cracking along the edges of his vision as he looked away from her. 

Molly frowned and guided John back down into his recliner next to the bed. She moved the little table so he could reach everything. “At least get some water in you. John, I can come sit with him any time you need a break. I know you don’t want to leave him, but even Sherlock will understand if you have to take a walk, go shower, go get a coffee. Anything like that. You know where I am.”

John nodded to her, staring ahead and breathing as calmly as he could manage. “Thanks, Molly, I’ll let you know.” He’d hoped Sherlock would be awake by now, hoped he’d be back snapping at him for being an idiot. He picked up the water and slowly sipped at it, struggling with himself. “I… I’ll let you know if something changes.” 

Molly nodded. She touched Sherlock’s hand and schooled herself. She slipped out into the hall, headed back down to her job.

John managed to get down all the food brought to him over the next two hours by matter of willpower. He slipped down into sleep, holding Sherlock’s hand and leaning against the bed, remaining that way until several hours later, when Sherlock’s monitors began to scream and John was pushed out of the room, pale and shaking, watching the efforts to stabilize Sherlock through the glass. 

The swelling had put too much pressure on Sherlock’s diaphragm, which the insertion of a drain relieved. The tube ran from Sherlock's belly, draining the worst of the infection down into a floor container. Surgeons inserted it right there in the room, not wanting to move him while he was still so unstable. John stared through the window, waiting hours before he was allowed back in. The staff convinced him to shower and give himself some time while he was banned from the room, and eventually he was let back in, grabbing up Sherlock’s hand and speaking to him quietly, assuring Sherlock that he was there. 

When it calmed, and John had something more than guesswork to offer his brother, he picked up his phone and dialed Mycroft. 

“John, good afternoon.”

John was decidedly less optimistic than he’d been at any point since Sherlock crashed on him, and it reflected in his tone. “We’ve… had a setback,” he said heavily, scrubbing a hand over his forehead as he stared at the too-pale man in the bed. 

Mycroft listened as John explained what transpired that day. He took in a sharp breath. “Alright. I’m going out to our parents house this evening then. I will give warning if they decide to come see him. Mummy may decide it would irritate him too much… she’d likely be right. I’ll be in touch.” His tone was reserved. He needed time to sort himself as well. “Can I have anything brought to you? Food, anything?”

John set his jaw and reached down, wrapping his fingers around Sherlock’s limp hand. “I- if I was his doctor, Mycroft, I’d advise them to come.” He was having a hard time keeping his tone steady, grief wrapped up tight around him. This had gone from _not good_ to _decidedly bad_. Sherlock's swollen abdomen was easily seen under the covers, unnaturally distorted with infection. His complexion was waxen-white, eyes sunk and overly hot to the touch. This was how sepsis killed. 

“I’ll have them there in the morning. Would you like me to come sit with him tonight?” Mycroft ‘s voice was openly raw despite his efforts to maintain his hard facade. Only Sherlock had the ability to break him like this.

John hummed for a moment to keep his voice from cracking. “Don’t do that on my behalf. If you want time with Sherlock I’ll step aside. Mycroft I-” what the hell could he say? “Yeah, I’m… sorry.” He closed his eyes, hating himself. That was pathetic. 

“I will be in later this evening, after I go out to speak with our parents. I’ll bring dinner. Until then, John.” Mycroft closed his eyes, “Oh, anything in particular?” Not that either of them would eat but it would be there if they could.

John nearly laughed. “No, nothing in particular. I’ll be here.” He rang off and leaned over Sherlock, touching his face. “I’m not giving up on you, okay? I’m not giving up on you. I just have to be honest with them. I know you’re trying. Please, _please_ keep trying.” 

He leaned away then, something propelling him that he didn’t entirely understand as his fingers moved over his mobile. He pulled up Mary’s information and sent her a text, hands shaking and his vision blurring. 

_He’s dying. I won’t survive it._

Mary’s heart dropped when she saw the text. She hesitated before texting back.

_He won’t die on you. He cares about you entirely too much._

John nearly threw the phone across the room, dropping into his chair with a shout, raking a hand through his hair before returning the text. 

_You’ve nearly destroyed me. I honestly thought you loved me._

Mary’s text was swift in return.

_The only thing on this Earth I love more than you is our child. I love you, John. I’m sorry if you don’t believe that. I love you with all that I have._

John could not contain his anger as he simply pressed the call button, ringing her directly. He was on his feet, starting to pace in the small area at the foot of Sherlock’s bed, left hand flexing and relaxing as though pumping a blood pressure cuff. 

Mary’s voice was soft. “I’m at the clinic for my checkup. I’m sorry. I love you.”

John froze, his eyes closing, all the anger bled out of him at her words. “You’ve even taken this from me,” he breathed. They’d not been to the clinic yet. It was her first appointment, “even this.” He rang off and slowly sank back into his chair, one hand over his face as he finally gave in to tears. 

Mary rang back as she walked back out of the clinic minutes later.

John slid a hand over his wet face, trying to still his breathing as he stared at her name on the mobile screen. He nearly didn’t answer, fully unable to deal with any more bad news. He picked it up, his voice rough and uneven as he tried to catch his breath. “What?”

“Do you want me to reschedule? I wasn’t trying to take it from you.” Mary leaned against the side of the building, one hand on her belly, eyes closed tight as she listened to the anguish in her husband's voice. He was typically so stoic in the face of tragedy, to hear him like this was gutting. “I’ll reschedule, wait for you. I have no problem waiting.”

“Go to the bloody appointment Mary, or whatever the hell your name is. I- I have no idea if I’m-” he looked up at Sherlock, gritting his teeth and looking away. “Just do us a favor and leave off the assassin work until my child’s been delivered, yeah?” His voice was all over the place, anguish robbing him of his composure. 

Mary drew in a deep breath at that. “John, I love you. I am sorry. Would you like me to call you with what they say? Or do you care?”

John sucked in a sharp breath, his gut twisting. “Is it your intention to destroy me? If so, please just come and use your considerable skills and put me out of it Mary because I _can’t take this_.” He pressed his fist to his teeth, knees bouncing and eyes pinched closed. “You stopped me from killing myself after I lost him, only to take him from me again, and now you want to know if I _care about my child_?” He could hardly breathe, how had he put his trust in this woman? 

Mary let out a breath that was covering tears. “Of course you care. I'm- I'm sorry, that's not... That was not fair. I don't know why I said that." She drew in a deep, wavering breath, deeply wishing he was there with her. In an effort to soothe him, she spoke soft and low. "No scan at this one, not yet. We’ll try to find the heartbeat. Do you want me to try to record it on my phone for you?”

John cracked a sob into his knuckles, nodding as heavy tears slid down his face. “Yeah,” he managed before ringing off, setting the phone aside and curling down around his gut, arms crossed over his stomach and forehead to his knees. He'd so desperately wanted to become a father, walk through all the stages of pregnancy, hold her hand as they listened to the whooshing confirmation of life together. Now the only sound he was privy to was the mechanical click and hiss of a machine forcing life into Sherlock where his wife had nearly stolen it.

An hour later John’s phone chimed twice back to back, the first a sound file from Mary, the second a short text from Mycroft that read _6:00 pm_

John listened to the swift flutter no less than twelve times, eyes closed, letting that little sign of life fill up the room. He spoke softly to Sherlock. “This wasn’t how it was supposed to be… this wasn’t how I was supposed to become a dad, you know? I- not with you there and her-” he went quiet, playing the whooshing file again, finally shutting it off and laying the phone at his side. He settled in to rest until Mycroft showed up, worn out and numb. 

Sherlock was quiet, maintaining as he was. Mycroft arrived at 6:04 p.m. apologizing for being late. He’d gone by Angelo’s and picked up what the jubilant man said was Sherlock and John’s favorite meals were. He hoped to tempt his brother, as dubious a plan as his mind informed him it was.

John barely acknowledged him, looking up with tired eyes and nodding. “Could have taken another five hours and I wouldn’t have noticed,” he mumbled, stepping out of his chair and back so that Mycroft could sit near his brother. “Been a quiet day since I called you. He’s not tried against the vent anymore.” John had been talking to Sherlock for most of the day, but since that drain went in, he’d had nothing back from him. John’s voice was tight and he turned away for a moment on the guise of tying his shoes, blinking away the burn of tears. Never in his life had he been so consistently unhinged. 

Mycroft took Sherlock’s hand as he looked over him. His voice was soft, French as he spoke to his brother, “Come back out of this, brother mine. That is enough, he cannot bear this and frankly neither can I.” He cleared his throat and turned his attention back to John. “Thank you, for staying with him. I imagine this must be exceedingly difficult for you.”

John was in parade rest at the back of the room, looking away to give them privacy. “It’s the least I can do. This wouldn’t have-” he inhaled sharply and shook his head. “It’s harder for him, I imagine.”

There was a hum from Mycroft as he watched John. “Come, sit beside him again. He’s likely internally screaming that I’m holding his hand.” Mycroft patted Sherlock’s hand and moved to the small wooden chair nearby.

John did not argue, knowing Mycroft was likely right, if Sherlock had any awareness left in him at all. He sat down and took hold of Sherlock’s hand, leaning his forearm on the mattress and looking at Mycroft. “I didn’t know, Mycroft. I had no idea… I thought… used to think you lot were so foolish with your thoughts on love. But it was me. I was the fool, and he’s paying for it. I’m sorry. I was meant to protect him and I blindly led him into harm.”

Mycroft watched John's body language, taking in the way he interacted with Sherlock and making deductions even faster than his brother was ever capable of. His voice was quiet. “This is not your fault, John. You did not harm him. You’ve spent the entire time you’ve known him protecting him. Even when you thought believed him dead, you rose to his defense at great personal cost.” He took a slow breath, voice staying gentle. “He’s admitted it to you, then.”

John’s hand tightened on Sherlock’s and he looked away, staring at Sherlock’s face. “He did.” What more was there to say about it? The whole thing was a nightmare. He hollowed his cheeks for a moment and then licked his lips. “Like I said, I’m an idiot.”

“Not an idiot, well, not compared to the rest of the normal populace.” It was as close to a compliment as Mycroft was going to give John. “I have never seen a man more determined to live for another human being than my brother is for you, John. If he will pull out of this for anyone. It will be you.”

John shook his head and looked down at their hands. “He told me about Serbia. His back, Jesus his back. And I tossed him about when he came home, made him my best man at my sodding wedding, and now-” he shook his head, choking on guilt. “I’m sorry, you’re here to see him, not listen to me. I can step out, give you some time.”

Mycroft tilted his head and furrowed his brow, “John, I can do nothing for Sherlock other than let him know I am here and want him to pull through this. I have done that. I am not- skilled at comfort. But I am not here for Sherlock.”

John’s brow knit and he looked sharply over to Mycroft, curious and a bit apprehensive. “What are you here for?” He asked, wondering what he could possibly offer Mycroft that Mycroft couldn’t get for himself. 

“For you, John. You should not have to sit vigil by yourself.”

John stared at Mycroft as though the man had slapped him. “What?” he blinked in utter shock, taken totally by surprise. “I… okay, I’m okay but… yeah I-” he had no idea what to say to that. Of all the things he’d expected, that was not one of them. He adjusted his fingers on Sherlock’s and shifted more comfortably in his chair. “Earlier… earlier he could hear. When this last episode happened…” he’d not felt alone in the room earlier. Now… now he had been. Mycroft’s presence was shockingly welcome. 

Mycroft nodded. “Give him time. He’ll come back around. He is the most stubborn, obstinate creature I have ever known. In Serbia- He held entire conversations with you in Pashto. He would tell you he knew you were a construct of his mind, but that he was glad you were with him anyhow. I was able to view some of the tapes before I extracted him.”

John bit the inside of his cheek as he leaned closer to Sherlock. "If this idiot had just told me what he'd planned..." He shook his head, running his thumb over Sherlock's limp hand and tipping his forehead to Sherlock's knuckles, closing his eyes and breathing deep. "I would have gone with him. I would have done anything. That… I couldn't… if she hadn't come along, I-" he cleared his throat, turning to look at Sherlock as he brushed the man's knuckles along his lips absently. 

"I don't know how to do this. I don't know how to do any of this, Mycroft. It's like protecting sandcastles from the tide. How the hell have you managed it this long?" 

"I managed to make him loathe me on a lot of levels. And I haven't, John. I let him slip to drugs numerous times, let him go off by himself after Moriarty's web, lost track of him and left him in Serbia too long... You do what you can and hope it's enough." Mycroft looked down to his hands and shook his head. "He was trying to protect you. He didn't want you to know so they couldn't come after you if it was discovered he was alive. You had to appear to be... You had to grieve him openly."

John cracked a pained smile at that. "Worked," he whispered, holding tight to Sherlock's fingers. He pulled in a long, slow breath and looked over at Mycroft. "He loves you though, you know. Down in there, wherever he keeps himself. He loves you. I'm sorry that I've done this, Mycroft. I know you don't blame me, but I still am sorry, and I still blame myself." He went quiet, the small background of his child's whooshing, enthusiastic heartbeat a horrible backdrop to his reality. 

Mycroft and John sat with Sherlock through the night. Both wondering if he'd make it through. The Holmes parents came in the morning. Mummy was resolute, telling Sherlock to get better, that she had plans for Christmas. His father was mostly quiet, tears escaping his eyes. They stayed for a half hour until it was too much for them. Mycroft convinced John to go take a shower and eat something.

Anthea appeared with a tablet for Mycroft and he settled back in, working while not leaving Sherlock and John's sides. Sherlock did not worsen. For another fifty-six hours, John and Mycroft sat vigil, waiting for the worst. Sherlock made no efforts against the machine but his infection was starting to clear. His abdomen started softening and less came out of the drain. Mark was in and out, reassuring them that nothing was worsening at least.

Jim pet Sherlock's hair. "Giving up already? What a pity. I hoped to irritate you longer. Oh, well, I suppose you can see me in hell."

Sherlock shoved to his feet, knocking Jim's hands back. "Piss off. I'm not going anywhere with you." He took a deep breath and hauled off and kicked the door. It rattled harder than before and Sherlock let a grin move across his face.

Sherlock's fingers tightened on John's hand.

John came awake with damp cheeks, his breathing stuttered from tears that had fallen in his sleep. He dragged his face along his shoulder, staring at their joined hands before looking up at the monitors. Perhaps he'd imagined it. He drew in a deep, audible breath and dragged a hand down his face, checking his watch. Three days in now with nothing from Sherlock. His abdomen was still draining, though not nearly as much. The bruising was older now, less pronounced, not as furiously red at the incision. John squeezed Sherlock's hand and shifted closer, resting his head back down just at Sherlock's hip, moved so that he could watch Sherlock's chest mechanically rise and fall. He missed him terribly.

Jim giggled, "You're a riot, you think that has his attention?" 

Sherlock turned to Jim, "Oh, I know it does." He attacked the door again, determined to get out.

Sherlock fought the machine. He managed to breathe against it, starting to take unassisted breaths once or twice a minute as John watched him. His hand tightened on John's again.

Mycroft looked up, brow furrowing, from his work. "John?"

John got to his feet, his heart racing as he leaned over Sherlock, sliding his palm over his hair, speaking in low, soft Pashto to him. "Come on, Sherlock, that's it. I see you. Come on," he looked over to Mycroft, speaking in swift English. "He's trying to come up out of it, four of his own breaths all of a sudden, unassisted, squeezing my hand." He turned back to Sherlock, fingers in his hair. "Please, Sherlock, oh god please, keep trying," his Pashto quiet and slightly more desperate.

Mycroft moved to his feet, work abandoned. He took up the other side of the bed, French on his lips, "Come on brother." Mycroft took Sherlock's hand in his.

Jim wrinkled his nose, "Ew, big brother is here?"

Sherlock smirked to Jim. "Jealous?" With one final kick, Sherlock slammed open the door to the padded room. He stumbled out into the library there. His stairs didn't come all the way down. He was still stuck, but he had more room to roam.

Sherlock squeezed both their hands. His grip wasn't as strong, but he continued taking unassisted breaths.

John closed his eyes as Sherlock began to breathe more regularly, nearly more often than the machine. "Oh, god, there you are," he spoke softly, his voice wavering as he tipped his forehead to Sherlock's, fingers curling in his hair. "Keep at it, keep at it," he repeated, the tube running from Sherlock's mouth resting against his own cheek, unable to pull Sherlock's hand up any higher due to the restraints. If Sherlock opened his eyes, he'd be disoriented, and _strong_ , they were always so bloody strong. "Keep trying."

Sherlock stared up at the stairs before him.

Jim strained to the end of his chain looking out the door. "Still can't get out. Ho hum. How sad for Sherlock."

Sherlock looked over his shoulder, eyes narrowed. "Shut up, Jim." He waved his hand in a fit of dramatics and the door swung shut of its own accord. Figures floated around him until he smiled. Sherlock yanked over a book case, ignoring the crash of books. There would be time to straighten things later.

He used the bookcase to climb up to the landing he'd been unable to reach. Sherlock sat on it, panting and laughing. He looked up the stairwell and grinned. He would get there.

Sherlock's breathing evened out, still taking breaths unassisted. Mycroft called for Mark.

Mark strode into the room two minutes later, pulling on gloves as he came in. His eyes jumped from where John was curled around Sherlock to the monitors, wondering if some glitch had stopped them working properly. When he saw they were reading fine, he walked over, stepping around the side the bed where Mycroft was. Mark watched Sherlock take every fourth breath on his own with fairly consistent regularity. "Sherlock?" He called out loudly, touching John's shoulder in an effort to get a look at Sherlock's face. 

John, however, wasn't budging. He kept tight hold of Sherlock, desperate to have the time with him. "Don't," he clipped, watching Sherlock's face, "don't… you know what this could be, don't." 

Mark cleared his throat and picked up Sherlock's hand, pressing gently to Sherlock's nail bed. John thought him perhaps coming up for the well known moment of clarity before death. That didn't look the case to him, but he'd not found John sleeping in the last thirty hours and he wasn't about to push him. He went about checking Sherlock over while John spoke to him in Pashto. "I love you. I should have said more when I had you here. I'm so sorry, I'm so _sorry_. I'm lost. I can't. I'm lost. I love you." 

Sherlock rolled his eyes and started pushing himself up the stairs. "Don't be an idiot, John. I'm coming."

Fingers fluttered against John as Mycroft stepped out of the way. Sherlock squeezed John's hand again when John said he loved him.

Mycroft watched his brother. If Sherlock would come up for anyone, it would be John Watson. 

Sherlock continued the stair climb. It felt like it was taking hours. He tugged himself along by the rail and crawled when he couldn't stand anymore.

John gripped Sherlock's hand tight and kept just as he was, feeling each intentional inhalation as he worked his fingers along Sherlock's scalp, speaking softly to him. 

Mark spoke to Mycroft in the background as he kept an eye on Sherlock's cardiac monitor. "He's obviously trying to come up, taxing himself pretty hard. Sats are tanking, but that's to be expected when struggling with the vent. When he comes up, if he makes it today, I doubt he's going to be oriented. Typically they fight for a bit, and that's okay, that's what the restraints are for. Just letting you know to avoid the shock of it. I won't let him stay up long, this is a tremendous amount of work for him." 

Mycroft nodded as he watched Sherlock for a moment before turning back to Mark. "He'd fight to the ends of the Earth for that man. He won't stop trying to wake up for John. Is this truly a turn for the better then?"

Sherlock sat down on a window bench seat panting hard. He could hear Jim below him. "You'll never make it!" The madman sang his words and the rattle of chains echoed up behind them. He rested his head against the window and stared out at the darkness. "I'll get there, John. Don't give up on me.

Sherlock stilled, but his breathing kept on.

John held as he was, choking down his grief, holding desperate to Sherlock as his breath shook in and out of his lungs for a few long minutes. Finally he drew back, dashing a hand across his face and giving a quick nod, sitting back down in his chair as he worked the fingers of his left hand several times. 

Sherlock's condition did not shift for the next eighteen infuriating hours, and at the nineteenth, he stopped assisting the machines. John had thrown up for a solid hour, convinced that was the end of it. He waited the next twelve hours after that for Sherlock's heart to go out, blurry, bloodshot eyes locked to the electric peaks and valleys that tracked the effort of the organ. The drain had barely pulled anything for the last three hours, and Sherlock's fever was slowly coming down in tiny increments. 

John stood up, pacing before his composure nearly snapped, moving to sit just beside Sherlock and leaning forward, sliding his hand to Sherlock's cheek and tipping his forehead to Sherlock's temple. "If you have to go," he whispered in sad, calm Pashto, "if you have to go, then please know I'm sorry. Please know I love you." His thumb stroked along Sherlock's cheekbone above the tie of the tube as he gave the most important man in the world permission to die.

Sherlock came to on the window seat, head resting against the glass. Droplets slid down the pane of glass.

“He’s crying, you know?” Molly’s voice came from beside him. “You couldn’t love me… and that’s alright, it is. Really. But John, you love him. He’s giving you permission to die, Sherlock. That’s a bigger gift than anyone could give you.”

He looked at her and she smiled, it was soft and sad. “You should at least look at him before you go, so he knows you heard him.”

Sherlock pushed to his feet and straightened his coat. “No.”

“No?” Molly asked.

“No,” Sherlock said as he started up the stairs. “See, I don’t intend on dying. Especially if John has given me permission.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Art in this chapter by the lovely [JessicaMariana](http://jessicamarianaart.tumblr.com/). Clicky to check her out on tumblr!


	5. Chapter 5

Sherlock strained against the machine, hands curling into fists. His head tossed as he swam up. Muscles bunched and corded under his skin as he struggled against his restraints. Sherlock’s eyes snapped open, expression frightened as he looked up at John.

John had closed his eyes as the monitors began to blare, his breath hitching as he misunderstood, keeping his hand to Sherlock's face in anticipation of hearing his heart stutter out. When Sherlock began to toss his head, John's gut twisted, thinking Sherlock seizing. He shook his head, voice pained as he cried out, " _No_ ," not wanting to watch him go out violently. 

And then Sherlock's eyes _opened_ and John moved without pause, honestly reading this as a gift, one of those flashes of lucidity before death. He slid his palms along Sherlock's face, leaning in and speaking slow and clear. "I'm here. Mycroft is here. I love you. You're not alone. It's okay." Thick, heavy tears rolled down his face as his thumbs brushed along Sherlock's cheekbones, his heart fluttering in his hollow chest, a sucking void in the center of his body as he waited for Sherlock to fade away from him. "It's okay, it's all okay."

Sherlock continued fighting the machine as Mycroft made his way across the room. His expression was unguarded as he slid his hand into Sherlock's, pressing the button for Mark with the other. "I'm here, Sherlock."

Sherlock cut his eyes to Mycroft before looking back to John. He tried to speak, mouth working against the tubing. Brows knit as he kept looking between the two of them. 

Mycroft watched as Sherlock’s chest rose and fell in labored, panicked breathing.

John dragged his face across his shoulder in an attempt to clear it. "Slow down, Sherlock," John said softly, forcing himself to stay calm, "don't fight with it, just relax… don't fight with it." He kept close, hands shaking on either side of Sherlock's face, not daring to look away from him for a single second. 

Mark came in with several nurses, looking over the scene. He stepped forward and saw that Sherlock's eyes were opened. "Hello, Sherlock! It's alright, tube in your throat to help you breathe." He moved to the ventilator and watched as Sherlock bucked against the mechanical breaths, reaching down and swiftly turning the machine off. 

He turned back as John cried out, "Don't! That will _hurt_ , what are you-" He stopped as Mark pulled the connection between the tube in Sherlock's mouth and the ventilator apart, the sound of Sherlock's frantic breathing amplified through the hollow plastic.

Mark spoke calmly to him, "Okay, Sherlock, try to calm down, you're okay. I'm going to try and help you with your breathing, try to breathe with me," he said gently as he attached the bag to the end of the tube and very gently began to squeeze in breaths for him. 

John kept his hands on Sherlock's face, blinking down at him. "It's alright, that's good, Sherlock, really good." His knees were threatening him as he dared not hope. 

Mycroft retreated to the door frame to watch them work with Sherlock. He wiped at his eyes in a moment he would swear never happened in the future. 

Sherlock yanked an arm against the restraint closest to John. He kept his eyes to John. His expression went from fearful to annoyed as Mark worked on steadying his breathing. Over the next few minutes Sherlock's breathing relaxed. His eyes closed as his breathing became steady. 

Mycroft looked as Sherlock's face relaxed and he opened his eyes again. Sherlock tried to speak to John, features twisting when he couldn't.

John eased back, dashing his hands at his eyes as Mark disconnected the bag, watching Sherlock breathe on his own. John reached down and untied Sherlock's wrist, seeing how lucid he was. "J-Jesus you're… you're not..." he shook his head, his own chest catching as he wrapped his hand around Sherlock's and set a hip down on his bed, holding Sherlock's hand to his chest and looking over at his monitors. Sherlock's stats had dropped way down, but his heart rate was holding as was his blood pressure. John swallowed hard, turning his bloodshot eyes to Sherlock again, at least two days growth on his own face, staring at him. 

Mark watched him closely, "Hang on there, Sherlock, I know you don't like the tube, let's see if you can keep up with your breathing. It might wear you out." 

Sherlock clutched at John's shirt. His fingers curled in the material, grasp weak. He tried to lift his hand after a moment, reaching for John's face. He shook his head, face pinching as his hand moved far short of what he wanted. Sherlock closed his eyes. He breathed slow, deep breaths before he opened his eyes to look at John again. His exhaustion showed in his face. He worked his fingers against John's shirt, once again trying to reach John's face.

John covered Sherlock's hand at his shirt, shaking his head, not understanding what Sherlock wanted. "Try to relax, you are going to stress yourself," he said in tightly controlled restraint, another tear rolling down his face despite his effort. 

Mark nodded to one of the nurses, who handed him a syringe. "Alright, Sherlock, we will take this out, but I'll have to put it back if you get too tired, okay? In a moment I'm going to tell you to cough." John watched as he attached the syringe, deflating the little internal balloon that held the tube in place so that he could pull it out.

"Alright, Sherlock, give me a big cough," Mark instructed as the nurse cut the tie that kept the tube fixed around his mouth. As soon as it was out, Mark pressed a mask over Sherlock's face, waiting for the coughing to die down. "Alright, Sherlock, it's nearly been a week so that throat is going to be sore, careful with yourself."

Sherlock breathed for another minute before swallowing. His voice was rough, quiet. "Love you." His fingers worked again in John's shirt. "Face." He pressed his fingers against John's chest to emphasize. His face twisted in pain at using his voice.

Mycroft moved to the foot of the bed. "I'll tell everyone you've come back to us then. Always one for dramatics dear brother." Sherlock looked to Mycroft and the brothers shared a look.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and Mycroft drawled, "Well, it's done nothing for your attitude." His voice wasn't as cold as normal and his eyes still shone with tears. He nodded to John and held up his mobile. "I'll be down having a cigarette if I'm needed."

John nodded and then looked back to Sherlock, shifting and leaning in much closer, touching their foreheads together. He didn't allow himself to speak as he carded his fingers through Sherlock's hair, his shoulders constantly hitching in an effort not to dissolve into a weeping mess on him. 

Mark had the nurses drawing labs from existing drip lines, keeping a very close eye on Sherlock's wavering vitals, nothing dangerous but more unsteady than he would like. "Deep and slow breaths for me, Sherlock," he reminded, eyes to the screen. 

Sherlock closed his eyes as he leaned his head into John's. He concentrated on his breathing. His body relaxed by bits as the effort of waking up left him. His chest rose and fell with slow concentrated breaths. Sherlock opened his eyes again to look at John. His voice was difficult to hear, "tired."

John sank his fingers in Sherlock's hair, nodding gently against him. "You can sleep, it's okay, it's all okay," his voice broke and he tipped his nose to the side of Sherlock's face, closing his eyes and keeping hold of him, not at all trusting any of this. "I'll b-be right here, Sherlock. I'll be right here." 

Mark kept the flow high on Sherlock's oxygen, finding nothing to step in with yet. So far, it was going alright. 

Sherlock nodded as sleep crept up on him. It tugged him under causing his hand to go slack against John's shirt.

Molly appeared beside him as he sat on the sofa in Baker Street. He looked alarmed and started to speak.

Molly shook her head. "No, you're not unconscious again. Just asleep. It's going to be hard, Sherlock. All of this. He still loves Mary, he loves you. They have a child on the way. If you're going to give up on him, now is the time. He says he won't make it, but he has a child to look after and think about. He'd be okay."

Sherlock scowled at her. "I'm not leaving him! Stop that."

Molly smiled. "Alright, Sherlock. Get some rest. Stop analyzing things even in your sleep.”

John pulled back as Sherlock went lax, his face tight and haunted as he watched Sherlock's monitors, sick at his stomach. He held Sherlock's hand and just sat there, trapping down a scream that hovered just under his chin, refusing to speak or look away. He had no idea of Sherlock was sleeping or dying. It was nearly worse than the wait from earlier. 

Mark watched the monitors. He stood there for nearly twenty minutes, just watching, waiting. He finally turned back to John. "I'm hesitantly optimistic. But since this is Sherlock... John, I think he's turned the corner. This is still going to be hard. He's weak, his breathing is hard work for him. But I don't think he's going to leave us any time soon. You know the chances though. We'll keep everything closely monitored. Lie back, keep his hand in yours, and try to get some rest."

John huffed a laugh and dragged his hands over his face, easing off the side of Sherlock's bed and sitting back in his chair. He shook his hands and then got to his feet, starting to pace. He was trying to still his mind, letting all the information rest there as he put his feet in motion, one ear sharp to Sherlock's breathing, waiting for Mycroft to return. 

Mycroft came back in a few minutes later. He looked at John. "You should eat." He held up a bag of takeaway. "I know you don't want to... but pick at it? You've barely eaten since he was brought back to hospital." He set the bag down on the tray as he looked to Sherlock. "He's coming around, John. Give him time."

John nodded and sat down next to Mycroft, taking the bag and starting in on the food, paying no attention to it at all. He picked at it, staring at Sherlock, drawn and worn down thin. "I'll be more optimistic if he survives the night on his own," he said bluntly, all attempts at manners and civility gone. He wasn't being cruel, just honest, his fear getting the best of him. 

Mycroft nodded as he ate his own sandwich. He'd brought coffee for both of them and sipped on his. "We will see." The room lapsed into silence as the two of them picked at and ate their food. Mycroft knew it was going to be a long night. He knew the odds, but he knew his brother. Sherlock was the most determined person he knew.

John did not sleep at all that night. Sherlock's breathing was all over the place, at times far too fast and shadow, others he was taking so long between breaths that John nearly started bagging him.

He was nothing short of nauseous by seven in the morning, hands shaking and deep bags under his eyes.

Mycroft slipped from the room to get them what seemed like a millionth cup of coffee when Sherlock opened his eyes.

Sherlock's brow furrowed as he looked around the room. He took in a deep breath, sighing it out. _Hospital_. Sherlock found John and the corner of his mouth quirked up.

John was leaned hard against Sherlock's bed, one hand wrapped around Sherlock's wrist as he watched the monitors with blurry eyes, He did not at all notice Sherlock waking up. There was a slight blip in Sherlock's heart rate that made John wrap his fingers around Sherlock's pulse, adjusting his hold, but otherwise he did not look down. Sherlock's heart had dipped drastically and then slowed and John closed his eyes. "Please," he breathed, the word a broken mess, his chin unsteady with fear for a moment. 

Sherlock's voice was a croak, "John, sleep. Look like hell." He took a few deep breaths. "Water?" He licked his lips under the mask a small sigh escaping him at how his throat ached. He watched John, one eyebrow raised in question. Sherlock moved his other hand only to find it still bound to the bed. His brow furrowed in annoyance.

John looked down suddenly, his eyes wide and his lips working incredulously before letting go of Sherlock and going for the water. He poured half a cup before knocking it over, spilling water everywhere. He swore and tried again, moving over to help Sherlock drink from the straw while tugging the forgotten restraint loose. He pulled Sherlock's mask aside for a moment, crouching near his head, "Just a little, go slow," he breathed, staring at him. 

Sherlock took a drink from the straw. He wet his mouth before letting it slide down his throat. He watched John as he took a few more sips. "How long? Throat hurts." He wrinkled his nose as he looked around. "ICU, not my room." He sniffed, smell aided by the mask, "Mycroft is here." He relaxed back against the bed. Sherlock took a few deep breaths, eyes closing as he did.

John set the cup down and wrapped his hands around Sherlock's after putting the mask back on his face, slowly sitting down, tipping his forehead to Sherlock's knuckles as he closed his eyes and made himself breathe. He could not find his voice for several minutes. "Six days," he finally managed, his voice raw and grating, not at all moving. 

"John," Sherlock's thumb glided against John's cheek, caressing him as he spoke through the mask. His voice was strained, "I love you, sorry I scared you. Not leaving again." He coughed and sucked in deep breaths. It took a minute to get his breathing back under control. Sherlock touched John's face again. 

"Always here for me. Even when no one else is."

"Stop talking before you choke yourself," John said softly, looking up at Sherlock, resting his cheek against his knuckles. "Mycroft will be back, he's been here for days. I- it got really, uh, really not good. I had to let them know. I know you didn't want-" his voice cracked and he went quiet again, closing his eyes and breathing in the reality that Sherlock was here and alive and _talking_.

Sherlock nodded in acceptance. He couldn't stop touching John, little strokes of his thumb as he tried to soothe him.

Mycroft was silent as he came in. He observed his brother watching John with a look of love and concern he'd not thought Sherlock capable of. Mycroft swallowed around the lump in his throat and rapped his knuckles on the door frame. 

"Sherlock, glad to see you've joined us for breakfast." Mycroft's tone was aloof, but even he could not hide the relief in his voice.

John looked over at Mycroft and gave him his best effort at a smile, beyond exhausted, nearly ready to black out from stress. “He’s made it through the night,” he said roughly, squeezing Sherlock’s hand and nodding, suddenly resting his head down beside Sherlock’s hip as stars cracked at the edges of his vision. “Sorry, just… need… just… moment.”

Sherlock drew his hand out and stroked his fingers through John’s hair. He looked to Mycroft, his head nodding once in thanks for Mycroft staying with John. Mycroft gave a sharp nod in return. He settled down in his seat, going back to his tablet. He became unobtrusive, giving the men a moment.

John lay there breathing slowly with his eyes closed, putting his focus to Sherlock’s, ( _Sherlock’s!_ ) fingers in his hair, trying to calm the harsh spin of the room. He opened his mouth several times to speak before giving it up and just allowing himself the time he needed. 

Mark appeared in the doorway, poking his head in and talking to Mycroft. “Morning, just coming to see- well, if it isn’t Sherlock himself,” he said warmly, noting John as he came closer, looking over the monitors before looking down to Sherlock. “Hello there, do you remember yesterday?”

Sherlock shook his head slightly, “No.” He looked annoyed at the way his voice sounded. “Said six days. Ventilator?” Sherlock pulled his other hand to his throat. He sagged down in the bed from the effort. “This is ridiculous.”

Mycroft snorted. “Leave it to you to find nearly dying and then being _tired_ from the hell your body has been through ridiculous.”

Mark hummed at that, leaning in with a penlight and starting in getting a look at him.

John spoke. “You’ve been breathing through a tube I put in your throat since you crashed out six days ago. Sepsis. Got bad. Really bad. Extubated you yesterday evening. Thanks for not dying.” God he was tired. He didn’t bother to pick his head up, just left it resting there, eyes closed, heart thumping slow and hard. 

Sherlock’s fingers were gentle on John’s scalp, rubbing back and forth. “Said I wouldn’t leave you again. Meant it.” He winced away from the penlight, “Must you?” His tone was annoyed, already starting to fuss even though he could tell he was a long way from any semblance of _better_.

“Indeed I must,” Mark replied with a warm smile, not at all put off, quite accustomed to cranky patients. He put the light away and began to feel at Sherlock’s neck, clinical fingers moving, exploring and examining until he was at Sherlock’s belly. “Gotta ask you to budge up, John,” he said gently, peeling back the dressing as John moved away, getting to his feet and catching himself on the bureau as his knees buckled. He shook his head and looked away, swearing under his breath before muttering about coffee and moving unsteadily out of the room without another word. 

He didn’t go for coffee, though. He leaned against the wall a few rooms down and stared at his mobile, Mary’s number on the screen. Blurrily he sent a text without thinking much about it. 

_Are you safe?_

Mary’s reply came within a minute. Her fingers hesitated over the call button, but she relaxed back in the chair without hitting it.

_Safe and at home. Do you need anything?_

John read the text, slowly easing down the wall and sitting on the floor, staring at his phone. He didn’t move for a very long time, his mind sluggishly pulling in a thousand directions, unaware he was crying. 

_Baby sounds healthy._

_Yes, we got wonderful marks all the way around. First scan scheduled. I went ahead and scheduled it, but if you can’t make it I will reschedule. I’d like you there._

Mary chewed on her lip as she held a hand over her stomach. She watched her phone, anxious for her husband to text back.

John pressed a shaking hand to his eyes and swallowed against the horrible nausea, breathing for a few minutes before replying. 

_Perhaps that should have been in your mind before you took a kill shot at him._

He made an audible sound of distress and set his phone down, covering his face, his shoulders shaking terribly. He’d pushed her to the back burner to focus on Sherlock in his last hours. That threat was, hopefully, past them now. Hopefully. His mind had hardly given him half an hour before shoving Mary, his beautiful, caring, brilliant, horrible, loathsome Mary to the front of his mind. 

_Text messages are not the place for this. I told you about the scan because you told me off for going ahead with the appointment without you. Forgive me. I thought you wanted to see the baby. I’ll not tell you anything else unless you ask it of me._

Mary nearly threw her phone across the sitting room. She closed her eyes, index and thumb pinching the bridge of her nose.

John stared at the message, incredulous. “You have-” he grit his teeth and rang her directly, not giving a damn that he was in the bloody hallway, his entire body shaking. 

“John, I realize you are angry with me. You’ve every right to be. But you cannot yell at me for going without you and turn around and do the same thing when I tell you I’d like you there for the scan so you can see our child. What choice do I have but to tell you I won’t tell you anything unless you ask!? I love you, I love our child. What do you want from me on that front?” Mary’s voice was doing a shite job of concealing how she was cracking apart.

John spoke in a tightly controlled tone that he reserved for intense anger, words curling little smiles up on his lips as he did so. “I can yell at you, Mary, for whatever the hell I please. You don’t have a choice in it, and trust me when I say I know how bloody awful that feels.” The exhaustion was weighing his voice down terribly, dragging his tone through gravel. “You’ve not even _asked_. Would it be a relief to you? Would it? Is that- Jesus. How did I fall in love with you?” 

Mary’s voice was calm as she spoke. “No, you may not yell at me for whatever you wish. You will not yell at me for whatever you wish and put that sort of stress on _our_ child. I have not asked because you have made it abundantly clear you want nothing to do with me. I have called and requested the condition of him every day, three times a day. No it wouldn’t be a relief. I did _not_ take a kill shot at him or he would have been dead that night.” She took in a breath. “You can be angry at me for as long as you’d like. But you will _not_ do things to me that can potentially harm our child.

John sat there, quietly breathing through the tears that rolled down his face, his gut twisting with her words. “You-” his voice broke and he ticked his head as he pressed on, “don’t you dare sit there and accuse...you went on a _job_ pregnant! Of all the- to accuse me of trying- how-” he grit his teeth as stars cracked along his vision, hands shaking so hard he dropped the phone. He groped for it, gathering it back to the side of his face, wheezing as he breathed through the acute distress. His voice was hardly a whisper as he spoke, “You were my refuge, Mary. I- you were the only place, _the only place_ that I felt safe. You are killing me.” 

“I went on the job to _protect_ our child. I accused you of _nothing_. Do not put words in my mouth. I told you that you could not yell at me if you wished because it could stress the baby. That’s not an accusation of you trying anything. So stop that right now. I am trying. I love you and I am sorry this is happening. I can go somewhere if you’d like to come home to sleep. Go ‘round a friend’s house, get a hotel room. Whatever you want.” Mary kept her voice calm as she spoke to him.

John was quiet as he sat there, his heart breaking apart, pushed past his limits. It was clear in his breathing that he was struggling with tears, trying to find words, shaking his head and gritting his teeth as his chest was seemingly trying to turn itself inside out. “I-” the word broke apart in the air and he pulled the phone away, tipping it to his forehead as he choked on a sob, taking a moment before pulling the phone back. “no, y-you don’t need to do that.”

“John, you’re wearing yourself to a nub. Please come home and sleep. Please? I’ll take the sofa if you want. _Whatever_ it takes to take care of you. I do love you. I was trying to protect us.” Mary’s voice cracked as she finished speaking.

“I don’t have a home,” John replied, pausing a moment before ending the call and dropping his head in his hands, ignoring the passersby. His stomach caved on him and in the next moment he was diving for the bin, tossing up the bit of apple and water that he’d had. It took several minutes before it stopped, a nurse having come over and slowly eased him into a chair, handing him a cloth to press over his face. 

Sherlock looked at Mark, “How bad, how long before I can go home?” Mycroft rolled his eyes. “Don’t be difficult, Sherlock. I know it’s your default mode, but please.” Sherlock scowled in his direction before looking back up at Mark.

Mark arched a brow as he scribbled in Sherlock’s chart. “Well, we were not sure if you’d survive the night, so, that bad. Home? If you don’t have another setback, and I do mean of the slightest variety...two and a half, three weeks at the earliest.” 

Sherlock glared at him, “Unacceptable.”

Mycroft pushed to his feet. “Sherlock Holmes. Behave. I’m going to find John and check on him. He needs sleep. I assume I can trust you not to attempt running away while I’m gone.”

Sherlock watched him, eyes narrowed. “Maybe.”

Mycroft blew out an annoyed breath and strode from the room.

Sherlock looked back to Mark. “Impossible. I have a case.”

Mark set the chart down and looked at Sherlock and then looked to the door. “Every time that man cried, you managed to fight through the act of dying and breathe against my machines. You _died_ , Sherlock. You died. Again, as I understand the initial gunshot killed you as well. You died, and I fully believe you came back out of it for John. Who’s not left your side for more than seven minutes every other day, and eaten what? Fifteen hundred calories since you went down. Your case, Sherlock, is that man. Put the work out of your head. I’ll give you a sedative if you need one, but for god’s sake if you can’t keep in bed for yourself do it for your friend.”

Sherlock arched a brow at Mark and nodded, “Anything for John.” His tone, despite the gravel in his voice, left no doubt as to the veracity of his statement. He swallowed and winced at his throat. “Water?”

Mark brought over water for Sherlock, and once Sherlock was done with the drink, he brought out a spray, and managed to get to to the back of Sherlock’s throat. “That should ease it a bit. Use it when you need it, I’ll leave it right here. How’s your pain?”

Sherlock wrinkled his nose, “Abdomen’s tender. Suppose that’s normal. I’ve got a tube in it now.” He let out a frustrated sigh. “When can I start… doing things to try to recover? I- this lying in bed is grating. I’ve a past problem with substances. Sedatives may not be the best course.”

Mark nodded, “I’m very familiar with your history. For now, we use what we need and we worry about addiction later. You’re not stable yet, Sherlock. I know you’re lucid and talking, and you’re much improved, but even your sats are dipping way low when you speak. You’ve got a ways to go. Give it time, let me worry about dependency. Your brother would not let me be your physician, nor would John, if I wasn’t good.”

Sherlock narrowed his eyes as he looked over Mark. His head tilted to the side. “Married, no children, cat, two dogs. She’s a secretary? No, something similar though. Receptionist maybe.” He closed his eyes for a minute and breathed deeply before looking back up to Mark.

“My _wife_ is a practitioner here, research labs. You should sleep if you can.” He went back to writing in Sherlock’s chart before turning to the monitors and resetting the levels for the alarms, shifting them slightly. 

Sherlock muttered, “Always something.” He closed his eyes, exhausted with the efforts he’d made. “Check on John. Please.” He breathed slowly through the mask, trying to settle back in the bed. He turned his head so he was facing John’s chair.

Mark did nothing of the sort as he helped shift Sherlock to the position he was seeking and then got a listen at his lungs, leaning back to watch the monitors while Sherlock began to rest. He wasn’t keen on letting Sherlock alone just yet. If John and Mycroft hadn’t been sitting with him, he’d likely have had several nurses posted closer than was normal even for ICU. 

Sherlock muttered at Mark but shut up again as exhaustion crept up on him and dragged him back down. Sherlock’s breathing evened out and became deeper as he fell back asleep.

Mycroft found John in the hall and crouched down beside him. “John? You should get some rest. You are, of course, welcome to stay with Sherlock, not that I could stop you. But would you like me to have you taken to your flat or Baker Street?”

John pulled the cloth away and looked at Mycroft, shaking his head. “I… I can sleep in the chair. I don’t have a flat any longer, and I’m not going to Baker Street without him ever, bloody _ever_ again. Th-thank you, though, really. I can just sleep in the chair.” 

Mycroft nodded, “Alright. Can I get you anything or would you like to go back?”

John found his way back into Sherlock's room and sank down into the recliner, laying on his side, pulling a blanket up to his shoulder and curling up defensively on his side, feeling very small and very damaged. He closed his eyes, trying to breathe, head throbbing and nauseated with the overwhelming nature of every single aspect of life. It was a matter of seconds before he dropped out hard, tears sliding down his cheeks even in his sleep.

Mycroft watched John and spoke with Mark in the hallway. "Doctor Watson is worrying me. Is there anything you can suggest that we do for him. I've any number of avenues in which to help him. Is there anything I should do at this point for him?" He took a deep breath. "They are inseparable. Or were, until Sherlock left for two years."

Mark leaned in the doorway as he watched the pair of them. "This. This is what he needs is to sleep. He's been forcing himself to eat as much as I think he's capable, so that's been helpful, and I've had the nurses pushing supplement drinks on him that he's not refused. I think this is what he needs, rest. A lot of rest. Now that Sherlock isn't in such acute danger, I anticipate John will improve." He shrugged and looked back to Mycroft. "I could offer him medication, but he does not particularly strike me the sort of man that would be willing to set pride aside."

"No, John Watson is unfailingly proud and strong. His personal life is- fraught with this kind of thing, due in no small part to my brother." Mycroft hummed. "Is there a lounge or family space I could move to for a bit? I'd like to give them some time alone. Even if it is to sleep."

Mark walked Mycroft over to the family area, less than a minute from Sherlock's ICU bed. "We don't have any other family's kipping here like you lot at the moment, I anticipate you'll have the room to yourself. I will let the nurses know to come get you immediately if there is any issue. I've rounds to make, but I've got my fingers crossed for a quiet afternoon for you all. Here," he pulled out his wallet and slid a card out, handing it over to Mycroft. "Personal mobile is on there. Don't hesitate."

Sherlock woke with a start to find Jim staring down at him. "Oh! You're awake. Good. Here I was thinking you wouldn't come back. You did though. Just can't stay away from me. People are going to ta-alk, Sherlock. They'll say you're cheating on John with me." He opened his mouth in an O and then winked.

Sherlock sat up and looked around wildly, "No, no, no no! I was getting better! I was fine!"

Jim giggled, "Guess you just like me better."

Sherlock spun in a circle once he was on his feet. The room was whole again, undamaged by his efforts to get out. Sherlock's hands fisted in his hair. "No, this isn't happening!"

Jim shook his head and laughed. "Oh Sherl, my poor little lamb. Lie down before you hurt yourself."


	6. Chapter 6

Mark stared down at Sherlock and scrubbed a hand over his face. Six hours. He'd managed six hours asleep with John at his side before his lungs had tried to give out. He watched the mechanical rise and fall of Sherlock’s chest punctuated with soft breaths of his own now and again. Mark looked over to John. He took a deep breath. "John? Do you need anything? This is- Do you need to talk with someone? I could-” His thoughts flashed to the earlier conversation with Mycroft but he pressed on. “I could write you something for nerves, sleep… something like that.”

John had come awake to the pulsing warnings from the wall monitors, a spike of adrenaline through his chest, though otherwise not registering much else other than steps long practiced. 

_Check airway_ , his mind whispered as he rolled Sherlock to his back, yanking the pillow out from behind his head and dropping it to the floor as he tipped Sherlock's chin up to the ceiling, clicking on the overhead lights. 

_Breathing_. "Sherlock," he called out loudly, leaning his cheek down over Sherlock's lips to feel for breathing. Nothing. He reached to the side, grabbing the bag valve mask off the wall and placing it over Sherlock's mouth, holding it over his nose and lips in a well practiced 'C' grip, squeezing in a breath and watching Sherlock's chest rise and fall with it. "Sherlock, wake up for me," he called out loudly again. 

_Circulation_. His eyes flicked to the constant echo-cardiogram, studying it as a code team came rushing in, followed by Mark who was thankfully still at the hospital. John's hair was sticking straight up on one side, lines from his sleeves cutting across his face where he'd slept on them, eyes red and puffy. His hands were perfectly steady, and he was at as much ease in a code as one could be. He was on autopilot, treating and not thinking. 

It wasn't until it was clear that this was not a tired one-off on Sherlock's part, not some pause in his energy where he'd grown too tired to breathe, and that he needed to be intubated again, that John's fingers began to shake and he handed the head of the bed to Mark, staring as the rest of the code was run and the tube placed and the goddamn ventilator hooked back up. 

He startled slightly when Mark addressed him, looking away from Sherlock and over to him. "Hmm?" He'd caught that Mark had said something, just not what, exactly, he'd said. 

“Do you want something for your nerves or for sleep? I- it’s not a judgement or pressure. It’s an offer.” Mark held up his hands to placate the man. “The offer is there… if you need it.”

John shook his head, trying to give him a weak smile. "No, I- no I'm fine. I'll let you know. Thank you though. God, Mycroft. I've- can..can you stay for a moment, I've got to go get him." He dragged a hand down his face and started down the hallway, hands tight at his sides as he headed for the family room, pushing the door open to the darkness. It was only half nine, hardly into the night. They'd had a quiet day, only to have the night fall apart. "Mycroft?"

Mycroft sat up from where he'd finally been able to doze in a recliner. "John?" He clicked on the lamp next to the recliner. He took in John's appearance and pushed to his feet. "What's happened? What's wrong?" Mycroft smoothed his waistcoat in an absent way.

John nodded and just started speaking. "I don't know why, but he stopped breathing. Worked him for a little while, hoping he'd get going on his own, but he… yeah he didn't. He's on the vent again, breathing with it occasionally this time at least." He cleared his throat and tried to give Mycroft as sympathetic look as he could. This wasn't about him. He'd made enough of a spectacle of himself already. "I'm sorry, I haven't had a chance to look at his lab work up to him coding."

Mycroft nodded, "John, you have no reason to apologize. Let's get you back to your chair. You need to drink something, at least, if you can't eat. Or at least get some more rest. There's- he needs rest and so do you. I assume you want to go back to him. But if you'd like you can rest here and I'll stay with him."

A nurse came around the corner, "Mr. Holmes, you are needed in- oh, Doctor Watson," John had got there first, but was glad to see that they were coming for him.

John excused her before looking back to Mycroft. "No, I"m okay, I can sit with him. I actually slept. I'll eat. You get some rest and I'll sit watch. I'm sorry I went to bits on you. I've had a bit of rest. I'm okay." 

_Lies._

Mycroft leveled John with a disbelieving look, "John, my brother is correct. You are a horrible liar. Come on then." He was gentle beyond anything he seemed capable of as he guided John back to the room. He pressed John into his chair and called Anthea. "Yes, no, it's taken a bad turn. Yes, Speedy's please. Right." He slipped his mobile back into his pocket and looked from Sherlock to John. "He's fighting, he just needed a rest. Give him time, John."

"Always do," John replied, getting right back up and moving over to Mark, taking the chart out of his hand and looking over his labs. "You never said anything about his liver or kidney function, Mark! Jesus, he- are you putting him on dialysis or-" he thrust the chart back at Mark and moved over to Sherlock's side, leaning down and lifting an eyelid. He wasn't jaundiced, at least. "No, not yet, don't put him on there yet but what are we giving him for-" he turned and looked at the hanging bags of medications and support fluids, a veritable tree of them, no less than six, eight if they were all going, which they were not. He looked back to Sherlock, sliding his palm into Sherlock's hand and squeezing. "Take a nap in there, Sherlock, don't stress yourself." 

Jim grinned at Sherlock, “Listen to that. John Watson is _worried_ about you. Again.” He clicked his tongue in mock care. “Oh, Sherlock.”

Sherlock sat against the door, hands in his hair. “Piss off, Jim.”

Mark and Mycroft watched John. Mark let John walk himself through the questions. "Right. We're keeping an eye on everything. You need rest. I want you awake and alert enough to bounce ideas and questions off of. Please, eat something and lie back down. You're exhausted, John. You had six good hours... but that was after days of shite rest. Let him rest up. He just needs some more rest."

Mycroft nodded. "I'm going to come back in here. I'll watch him and you can sleep. Alright, John?"

John was buzzing with nervous energy, holding Sherlock's hand, moving his hair out of his face as he let his mind run over case studies and results, therapeutic treatments, his own experiences with patients. "I'll… yeah I'll eat, that's fine. Sure, I can eat. You should too, Mycroft. I uh, yeah food. I can-" he was nearly manic with his energy, constantly moving, bouncing on the balls of his feet, ever touching Sherlock. He was okay. He was. Okay. Just perfectly rosy fine. It was all fine. All fine. He gave Mycroft a grin that was wildly out of place and then cleared his throat, totally having forgotten his instructions to Anthea. "I can pop down to the canteen. Is it open? Likely not. Maybe Molly. Is she here? Likely not. I could-" 

Mark shook his head, "John, listen to yourself. Can I at least get you something for what's going on right this moment? You are about to come out of your skin." He moved to the man's side and took him by the shoulders. His grip was gentle as he looked at John. "Breathe for me."

Mycroft was soft spoken, "I have food coming from Speedy's actually."

John stopped when Mark took him by the shoulders, pausing and blinking up at him. It took a moment for him to realize what Mark was talking about before he went totally still, taking stock of himself. He drew in a slow, deep breath, letting it out over ten slow seconds, eyes closed, hands flexing and relaxing at his sides. "I apologize," he said softly, the words choking him off before he ticked his head to the side, brows knitting. "I- right. Yeah. Suppose I'd be an idiot not to take something. Okay. He- he-" John opened his eyes and looked over to Sherlock, the energy flooding out of him. "Oh, god." 

Mark guided John down into the chair. "Steady, John. He's still helping the machine. He just needs a rest. So do you. You've done more than anyone expects of you for him. You've gone above and beyond what any family member should have to, including spouses or parents for children. Sit down and rest. I'm going to get you something for tonight. If you need more after this, we'll visit that later. Right now, I want to you to eat when the food comes and take the medicine I'm going to give you."

John's hands trembled as he sat down, nodding at Mark. "He's just… just tired… came up too fast… that's all he's just t-tired and he'll be… fine, he'll be fine. He's just tired." John ran a hand over his face, unresistant as he allowed Mark to move him how he wanted. Sherlock's condition had just slid back from 'Serious' to 'Critical' once again, and John was sure he no longer had any stomach lining. 

Mark nodded to John as he spoke, "He's exhausted, you both are." He pointed to Mycroft. "Sit with him. I'll return in a moment."

Mycroft sat down in his chair, voice quiet. "Sherlock loves his dramatics. He tried to come back too soon and needs a break. I think you are entirely right about that, John." He fell quiet as Mark breezed back in.

A pill and a glass of water were held out to John. "Take this. In about forty-five minutes you're going out for hours. I'm going to kip in the doctor's lounge tonight to keep an eye on him so that you know you can sleep. Okay?" 

Anthea appeared with a bag from Speedy's and spoke in low tones to Mycroft for a moment. He nodded to her and she disappeared again.

John held the pill in his hand and, while Anthea was speaking to Mycroft, leaned in and spoke quiet and urgent to Mark. "If he starts to die," his voice wavered, but he did not break, needing Mark to understand this, "you hit me with a reverser. Non-negotiable. I can't- if he's dying, I have to say goodbye. Please." He took the pill, downing the entire glass of water before Anthea was done speaking to Mycroft. 

Mark nodded, "I'll pull you out of it if something happens, John. I promise I will pull you up from it. I honestly don't expect to have to. I think he just wore himself out. Just, rest, okay? Eat something before that knocks you under." He patted John's shoulder and moved back. 

Mycroft nodded to Mark as he moved to his side, "Thank you, Doctor." He settled a box in front of John. He'd had John's favorite ordered. Mycroft set the cup from a thermos next to it and poured John a cup of real tea from it. "Eat and then rest. We'll keep an eye on Sherlock for you."

Three hours later, John was dead asleep, a belly full of food and wearing clean sweats, showered and at least with clean teeth if not shaven. He'd carded his fingers through Sherlock's hair and leaned in close, whispering goodnight. When he'd fallen into his chair, most of his mind already shut down, he picked up his phone and let his thumbs move without thought. Mary's mobile blinked with a message, sent in the loose confusion of drugs and exhaustion. 

_I am impossible, and more foolish than even Sherlock could ever describe. I love you, even though it's clear you do not love me. I am utterly alone in this world, and I am trying, god how I'm trying to forgive you. I've never been more afraid in my life._

He'd dropped off into sleep as soon as he'd sent it, the phone sliding from limp fingers to rest against the side of his thigh. 

Mycroft looked up an hour later to find Mary standing in the door. He tilted his head. "Come to finish the job?"

She slid her eyes to him. "I did not intend to kill him. I would have aimed at a more appropriate place had that been my intention. I came to check on him when I learnt his status was downgraded." Mary looked to John. "And to bring him some more of his things. See if anything needs washing. That sort of thing. He's convinced I do not love him. He could not be more wrong."

Mycroft did not outwardly react. This woman was far more skilled than he in matters physical. He slowly began to move, in a way that looked natural, towards his mobile, intent on the small panic button there. 

"It is an easy assumption when your spouse catastrophically wounds a loved one and lies about their entire identity. Do find it in you to forgive him." He was speaking very quietly, holding his breath as John stirred in his chair, yet another tear sliding down his cheek. He'd been doing his best to restrain his grief while awake, though it was clear his mind demanded the release and he'd taken to weeping in his sleep these last few days. 

"Kindly do not wake him, he is not well."

"Right." She held up a bag and a teddy bear. "The bag is more clothing. The teddy has the baby's heartbeat in it. I thought he might like it. It's a better recording than the one I sent him over the phone. There is nothing for me to forgive John for. Stop being a sarcastic arse, won't you?" Mary looked back to Mycroft. "I only came to drop these things by and have a look at them. Thank you for staying with him."

Mycroft pushed himself to his feet, moving close to the woman and speaking in low, dangerous tones now, his posture entirely erect and every bit the threat he truly was. "You have thrice stopped my brother's beating heart. Were you not carrying the child of my brother's love, I would have you put down before you left hospital grounds. You will be _very_ fortunate indeed not to spend the rest of your miserable existence in the darkest hole I can find for you, that child whisked away as the cord is cut." He clicked his tongue on the 't' and moved further into her space. 

"My brother deems you worthy of care and attention, though I cannot for the life of me understand _why_. What you have done to John alone is reprehensible. I have never, in all the years I've watched my brother torment this man, seen him in such poor condition. Tread _carefully_ , Mrs. Watson."

Mary looked at Mycroft and smiled. "You don't frighten me, Mycroft Holmes. Do keep that in mind. Or need I remind you of the work you've hired out for in Berlin, Hong Kong, and Moscow? So long ago... but I rarely forget an employer's name. Imagine my surprise when I found out you were Sherlock's brother. You were invited to the wedding you know... Now, if we're quite done threatening one another. I'm going to go home and sleep so that I can continue working and keeping the flat paid for. I did what I did to protect him and our child. But then again, you find Charles Augustus Magnussen amusing and allowable. I wouldn’t expect you to understand. Just think, if you'd put him where he belongs years ago, this wouldn't have happened."

Mycroft cracked an amused smile at her. "Oh, my dear. I do not pay attention to wet-working pawns. That is what all my little goldfish are for. Bravo, if you've pulled triggers for me. Let's not delude ourselves though, sweet mother, you only bothered with him to preserve your own skin. If you'd wanted to keep John Watson safe, you'd have moved on the moment you realized how vulnerable he was. Yes, go earn your honest pay nursing London. There is bunting to be purchased." 

He stepped back, leveling an easy stare at her. "Your concern for your husband is simply overwhelming. Please, don't tax yourself." 

All through, John lay sleeping, constant tears on his face as the drugs kept him artificially under, the mechanical breathing of Sherlock pushed through the room. "Flank, next time, Mrs. Watson. Center mass is risky."

"You allowed Magnussen to continue. This and all the deaths he's caused are on your head, Mycroft Holmes. But then, it's obvious to everyone you live to torment Sherlock. I'm sure you've been terribly frightened your little brother would die and leave you without someone to mock, ridicule, and boss about." Mary moved across the room and settled the teddy in John's lap. She paused on her way back by. "Have a good evening puppet-master. Have fun making them dance for you. You are excellent at it." She patted Mycroft's shoulder. "Good night." Mary smiled and stepped back out intending to go home and pack a bag. She needed to disappear from Mycroft's cameras for a while. She texted John for when he woke.

_I'll be reachable by phone. The flat is yours if you need it. I'm staying elsewhere for a bit. I do love you, John._

Mycroft decided, then and there, that should John Watson leave her, Mary Morstan was a dead woman walking. He would have her cut down in the street. He walked over and plucked the hateful stuffed animal off of John's lap, setting it aside with the bag. What that woman thought a man like John Watson would want with a sodding children's toy was beyond him. 

He walked over to his brother then, leaning in and smoothing his hair back, speaking in soft French. "While I do so enjoy irritating you, brother, it would break my heart entirely were you not here. I do love you, little pirate. Now rest and come back, I've given you a brilliant bit to use against me. Consider it an early Christmas gift."

Sherlock kicked Jim as the man laughed. "Shut up."

"Oh but _listen_ to them, Sherlock. It's brilliant. You're doing more, lying mostly dead in a hospital bed, to tear down your life than I ever did. Best wake up soon pretty boy. They'll all fall apart." Jim grinned up to Sherlock

"SHUT UP." Sherlock attacked Jim without relent. His fists and feet found the man over and over again.

Mycroft's younger brother did not stir though he did take more breaths unaided.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Shorter than normal, but still, a chapter!
> 
> PS - Don't kill us, yeah?


	7. Chapter 7

The next five days passed in a complete blur. John had remained blank when he realized that Mary had physically come to the hospital. He, in his boredom, had taken a scalpel to the bear and removed the little speaker with the recording. The bear he stitched and, at one point, walked up to the children's ward and delivered to the playroom. 

Sherlock had good and bad days. The good days, he was breathing at least half the time, otherwise unchanged. The bad, he gave up breathing nearly all together. John dutifully ate, and took to napping every three or four hours, closing his eyes for an hour or so, drifting off. He did not speak unless spoken to, and was mostly withdrawn and pensive. He did not try to reach Mary, nor did he discuss her visit with Mycroft. 

He had read the same paragraph four times in a row when Sherlock's monitor started to chirp at him. It was half one in the morning and the day had been mostly good. John set the book aside and looked over at him before focusing on the readout, watching with a twisting gut as Sherlock's pulse began to drop, his rhythm falling apart. 

John was on his feet and to Sherlock's side, watching his color fade, reaching out and pressing his hand to Sherlock's chest. "Oi, Sherlock no, none of this. Resting, you're just resting. Come on," he called as he grabbed a stethoscope off the wall, pressing the buds in his ears and the drum to his chest. 

Jim stood over him and laughed. "I told you I'd burn the heart out of you. Here I go love."

Sherlock shoved to his feet. He slammed Jim back against the wall. "No. I will _not_ leave John Watson. I will _not_."

Sherlock kept on in poor rhythm as a nurse appeared with the code team, heralded by the remote monitors. 

Jim giggled as he stared up at Sherlock. "You bloodied my nose. Well done, you. Do you think your heart's back to normal yet?"

Sherlock launched himself at the door. "Let me out. Bloody let me out of here!"

Sherlock's rhythm started creeping back toward normal. The nurse watched as his hand clenched. "Talk to him Doctor Watson."

John had already been moving to do so, shooting her an irritated glance as he covered Sherlock's hand with his own. "He could use a little chemical support," John clipped, asking for them to push a small amount of several specific medications to aid his heart. He turned back then, sliding his palm over Sherlock's hair, brushing it back from his forehead. "Hey, you. Sherlock. Stay here, yeah? Stay here. I can't do this, okay? I need you here. Stop this. Please. Stop this." 

It was all he could do to keep his voice steady as Sherlock's heart flirted with an abnormal rhythm. 

The nurse let John's irritation roll off her as the team worked on Sherlock with medications. It took another five minutes for him to steady out completely. "Call Walthers. His blood pressure is still too low." One of the team left the room to call Mark while the team stood by, just in case.

Sherlock stayed just stable enough for the team to eventually leave, most of them remaining at least in ICU in the event Sherlock coded again. The nurse stopped by, "Doctor Walthers decided to come in. He'll be here in another fifteen or so. He wants to see Mr. Holmes in person."

John looked over to Mycroft, his expression grim. This was decidedly not good. He had grabbed the cardiologist, demanding that he stay, watching Sherlock's pressures closely. Another ten points and he'd hardly be perfusing. His color was terrible, fingertips ashen gray and cold, lips dusky. 

"Come on, Sherlock," he whispered, holding his hand and rubbing at Sherlock's head, "don't do this to me again. Don't do this. I can't-" his voice cracked and he tipped his forehead down to Sherlock's head, his lips just above Sherlock's ear. "I can't put you in the ground again. I can't come sit at your headstone on Sundays. I can't clear out Baker Street and hold Mrs. Hudson, I can't do this. Please. God, please. I know you're tired. I know you are. Don't leave me here again, Sherlock."

Sherlock swore as Jim laughed, "Listen to how heartbroken he is! Listen! Oh, Sherlock. There's your heart."

Sherlock panted in front of the door and pulled himself off his knees once more. "Enough!" The sound echoed through his mind. The cell trembled from the ferocity in his voice. " _I will not leave John Watson_!"

Fingers twitched weakly against John's hand before squeezing with a bare amount of pressure. His movement was slight enough it could have been mistaken for involuntary if his pressure hadn't started to climb. The cardiologist watched as it came back to a level he still didn't like, but was far more agreeable.

Mycroft watched, hands folded together in his lap, knuckles white with fear for his brother.

John ran a trembling hand over his face and adjusted his footing. "Sherlock, come on. We can breathe for you but your heart, that's your job. That's your job. Come on, come back. Don't slip away." His face was dry, despite the way his hands were trembling, this is what dying looked like. This, exactly. "Don't you dare come up and say goodbye to me, don't do it. Focus, Sherlock. Come on."

Sherlock was beating against the door, screaming at his mind to let him out. "Don't do this to me. Don't do this to John. Pull it together. Pull it together!" He pounded his fists against the door as he cried.

Mycroft watched as he evened out and went still again. Sherlock's chest rose and fell on its own between the mechanical assistance.

John looked up at Sherlock's monitors and then back down to him, bumping him with his forehead. "Okay, I can live with that. Okay. Please don't leave. Please." He pulled back, carding his fingers through Sherlock's hair as he watched him, the oxygen up as high as they could safely give, his efforts at assisting the ventilator there. It was something, but it wasn't good. 

"Your parents… they might..." he trailed off, squeezing Sherlock's hand. "He's so tired."

Mycroft nodded as his gut twisted. He remained outwardly calm though, stoic in the face of his brother's decline. "I will inform them."

The rest of the night passed by them without event. The Holmes parents spent much of the next day at Sherlock's side. Sherlock's father spent hours reading _Treasure Island_ to him, something he'd loved doing more than anything else with his youngest son when Sherlock was small and enamored with pirates. He whispered softly to Sherlock when visiting hours ended, words only loud enough for Sherlock to hear, kissing his son on his forehead before leaving. Mycroft carried on that evening until he could no longer stay awake. John took over from him until he fell asleep with the book over his face.

That night dragged on for seven days. Nothing changed. Sherlock did not improve or deteriorate, locked in a sort of limbo that had them all on edge. On the seventh day Mark warned, in as gentle a manner as he could, that it might be too much and Sherlock may have sustained too severe of an injury to survive after all. 

Sherlock was a bloody, ragged mess inside the cell with Jim. Both of them were laughing, deranged, the sounds of madness echoing off the padded walls. Sherlock panted as he stared at Jim. "I'm leaving you."

Jim grinned, "You'll be back."

The door slammed open and Sherlock looked over his shoulder at Jim, "No, I won't." He stalked to the stairs.

Molly appeared beside him as he strode up them, straightening his coat. "You have to go slow, Sherlock. Your body won't take you forcing it up again like that."

Sherlock sighed at her. "Molly, I think I know my own body."

Molly smiled as she put a hand on his arm. "You do. That's why I'm here. One floor a day. You have to come up slow. If you don't- You might not have enough energy to tell him goodbye."

Sherlock looked out the window of the landing. He rubbed a hand over his face before nodding. "Alright. I expect tea."

Molly's laugh echoed up the stairwell. "You are a pompous arse even to projections in your mind. Now what does that say about you?"

Sherlock grinned, "Only that I enjoy tea, Molly."

\---

"He just looks as though he's sleeping, doesn't he, John?" Mrs. Hudson was holding tight to John's arm with both of her small hands, staring down at Sherlock. John had called her that morning, as soon as Sherlock's family began the somber discussions tactfully labeled _letting him go_. She'd been his first thought. She'd carried him through this the first time losing Sherlock - _the first time_ \- at least for the first few days after Sherlock had hit the pavement. She loved Sherlock as surely as he did, and it was only fair she have a chance to say goodbye to him. The Holmes family were in the Family Room with Sherlock's medical team. 

John knew better, but nodded anyhow. "Yes. He does. He… shouldn't be any pain." He abruptly and unexpectedly broke, his voice shattering as he pressed his free hand to his eyes.

"Oh, John," Mrs. Hudson bemoaned, leaning into him, "it's dreadful, all of it. So very unfair." She pressed a cloth to her eyes and then covered her mouth before shaking her head. Her frail fingers let go of John and she moved to bend over Sherlock's head, sweeping his curls back before brushing a kiss to his hairline. "My dear Sherlock, you will be so very missed." 

John hugged her and saw her out, just into the hall where she stopped and turned to pull him into a hug that nearly tore his heart out, telling him she would find her way out just fine, touching his cheek with an expression of melting sympathy. 

John made his way back to Sherlock's side, alone with him now in the room. He dropped the railing and crawled up on the bed with him, laying carefully at Sherlock's side, one hand splayed over the center of Sherlock's chest, the other wrapped up around Sherlock's head, careful of his breathing tube, pulling Sherlock so that his head rest nearly in the pocket of John's shoulder. He was quiet for a long time, just looking at Sherlock's face, drinking it in, setting it all to memory. 

"When you fell," he began softly, finders in Sherlock's hair, softly carding through the curls, "I thought about what I would do if I had a single moment more with you. I'm… thank you for the train..that bloody bomb." He flashed a smile at the memory, despite how terribly his heart ached. "I needed to say… needed you to hear all of that. I needed you to know." His voice faded out as he nudged his forehead to Sherlock's temple. "I don't know what I'm going to do without you. Thank you for fighting so hard, Sherlock. I'm… I'm so sorry my fear of alone did this to you. I'm so sorry. I love you, have loved you, will love you..."

John's voice cracked to a sob and he pressed a long, slow kiss to Sherlock's temple, letting his lips linger there, his own heart racing with fear and grief. "I'm so sorry. So sorry." 

Molly sipped her tea with Sherlock as they stared out at the rain. “They’re going to kill me before I can get out. They’re going to put me down.” Redbeard pressed his chin to the seat between them and whined to Sherlock. His hands stole down and caressed his head. “It’s okay boy. It’s okay.”

Sherlock looked over to Molly. “You haven’t come to say goodbye like the rest of them.” 

She smiled at him in response, “You know I can’t do that. I’ll say my goodbyes in my office.” 

Sherlock smiled to her. “No you won’t. Come on.”

Molly watched as he stood and started up the stairs. “Afraid you have to do this on your own Sherlock. Be careful.” She stroked Redbeard’s head and held her tea up. “Be strong, Sherlock.”

Sherlock’s hand twitched and then curled into John’s trousers. He pulled as hard as he could. 

_I’m here, damn it. Don’t you let them kill me._

John pulled away and looked down at his legs, incredulous, nearly blacking out with the shock of it. He’d been desperately trying to get Sherlock to respond to him for a week now, getting nothing. “Sherlock,” he breathed, reaching down and wrapping a hand over the fingers at his trouser leg, “Oh, god, Sherlock? Give me something on that damn vent, Sherlock, your family is obsessed with data. Please, just a breath or two, please.” 

Sherlock’s grip did not lessen. He struggled against the machine. John’s voice in his ear, Molly’s voice in his head driving him forward as his breaths came harder. Sherlock’s chest rose and fell on its own outside the machine more than it had in a week. His eyelids twitched but did not open.

John reached over Sherlock, pressing the call button for Mark, keeping a tight grip on Sherlock’s hand. He pressed up on his elbow as he slid his other hand to rest his palm against Sherlock’s cheek, thumb running along Sherlock’s cheekbone. “Come on, Sherlock, that’s it, oh thank god, that’s it. Right here, I’m right here. Breathe, come back,” his voice was solid and steady despite the dizzying roll of relief. 

Mark barreled into the room, expecting a full code. He stopped short at the end of the bed as Sherlock’s head leaned further into John. Mark’s eyes went to the ventilator and Sherlock’s chest. “Christ. I thought- Christ.” Mark looked stunned as he watched them. 

John did not look away, “Go get Mycroft,” he breathed, eyes locked to Sherlock’s face, squeezing Sherlock’s fingers that were blissfully insistent on his trouser leg. He carried on sweeping his thumb along Sherlock’s cheekbone, speaking to him calmly. “You’ve nearly got it. Motor control of your fingers, your eyes are moving, you’re close, so close. Come on, open your eyes, Sherlock, right here, come on.” 

Mark fled down the hall to retrieve Mycroft. He stepped into the room and grasped the sleeve of his jacket, just shy of dragging him from the room where he was sitting with family and Greg Lestrade. “Now.”

Mycroft slid out of the room, his jaw angled up, not bothering with his sleeve as he looked at Mark. “Has it happened, then?” He asked, tight and controlled.

“Not what you think.” Mark near shoved Mycroft into the room as he peered around the man to watch Sherlock. 

Sherlock’s eyes twitched before opening after so long. He winced at the light and searched for John. He was squinting as he found him. A tear slid down his cheek as he was finally able to focus on John’s eyes. Still he breathed against the machine.

John smiled at him, brushing the tear away. “Oh, god. Hi, you were nearly late.” He tipped his forehead down to Sherlock’s, reaching up to cradle Sherlock’s face between his hands. “Thank you,” he breathed so soft that only Sherlock would be able to hear him, “Oh my god thank you.” 

Mycroft was gripping the door frame for support without realizing it, hardly breathing himself as it became clear what was happening. They’d not got so much as a twitch out of him all week. He pushed himself forward, so taken with his brother’s sudden recovery that he hardly noticed that John was _up on the bed_. He reached down and took Sherlock’s hand, his voice rough and low. “Always with the theatrics.” 

Sherlock’s eyes cut to Mycroft, rolling petulantly at his brother's display. Despite all of that, he squeezed his brother's fingers before letting his gaze shift back to John. His throat worked around the tube before he realized what was going on again.

Mark just watched for a moment, allowing the men their time.

John eased back, watching Sherlock before his eyes cut to the monitors. He was holding steady. He looked back down at Sherlock, both of his hands still on Sherlock’s face, holding him nearly reverently. “Hi…” he said again with a pained smile, “God it’s good to see you, we’ve got you, you’re okay. Hurting?” He tipped his forehead to Sherlock’s again, breathing deep as a tear slid down his cheek. 

Mycroft squeezed Sherlock’s hand and let him go, stepping back, looking over to Mark. It occurred to him that perhaps, per John’s earlier warnings, this might be his brother’s effort at saying goodbye. He moved over to Mark and spoke softly. “Should I gather my family?”

Mark started to shake his head but stopped. “I- I don’t think so but I cannot tell you for sure. You- yes, get them, but I don’t think this is goodbye at all.”

Sherlock gazed up at John. He tightened his hand once, then twice.

John pressed a soft kiss to Sherlock’s eyebrow before looking back at him, schooling his face into something gentle and calm, though his voice failed to match. “Sherlock,” he said softly, trailing his fingers down Sherlock’s face, sliding them in his curls, running them down the side of Sherlock’s neck in a greedy move to have what he could. He held Sherlock’s eye and asked in quiet Pashto, “are you saying goodbye to me?” 

Sherlock rolled his eyes before looking back up at John. His head moved in the smallest ‘no’ possible. He closed his eyes as he soaked up the attention, leaning into John’s touch as he opened his eyes to gaze at him again.

John closed his eyes, several heavy tears instantly falling down his face as they were unintentionally shifted, nodding and pressing his cheek to Sherlock’s. He could give a damn that he was laying down beside Sherlock in the bed, in full view of everyone. “Don’t wear yourself out,” he breathed, fingers working in Sherlock’s curls opposite where their cheeks touched. “Oh, god I’m so glad you came back.” 

Mycroft cleared his throat and turned his back, taking Mark by the bicep and pulling him out of the room and into the hallway. He let the man go the moment they were out of the door, though he did not speak for a full minute as he composed himself. “I am going to go inform my family that the present discussion has just been rendered obsolete. I ask that you remain here to monitor Sherlock’s condition. I admit to fearing a repeat of his last waking.” 

Mark nodded to Mycroft. “You know, I thought they were married.” He shook his head. “Yes, ah, go, tell your family.”

Mycroft moved with purpose to the room which housed the remainder of his family, leaving Sherlock and John in the care of Mark. 

John could not stop touching Sherlock, brushing his fingers along Sherlock’s jaw, sliding them along his ear, touching Sherlock’s chest and then squeezing his hand before moving his fingers back to Sherlock’s face, all nervous energy as he tipped his face to Sherlock’s neck and just breathed, trying to assure himself that Sherlock was there, watching Sherlock assisting the ventilator. “That was too… too close Sherlock, oh god…” his stomach rolled and he pressed closer to him, careful not to disturb the original wound, gripping at Sherlock as tight as he dared. 

Sherlock’s movements were stuttered, slow. His opposite hand crept up across the blanket, over to John. Relief washed across his face when his hand made it to John’s face. His thumb stroked over John’s cheekbone in a tender glide. His face screwed up in frustration as he tried to speak again.

With a great deal of effort and a look of pure concentration, Sherlock traced a small heart on John’s cheek with his thumb.

John’s breathing changed into something resembling a laugh, his breath puffing warm and sudden on the side of Sherlock’s neck before he made himself push up to look at him. “You too, you wonderful idiot.” He smiled at him and pressed his hand to Sherlock’s chest before looking back up to his monitors. “You should stop moving though, you’re going to tax yourself. I am tired of watching you sleep.” He gave him a wink that did not particularly work as another tear rolled down his cheek and he carefully laid his head down on the pillow beside Sherlock. 

Mark moved back into the room then, speaking softly. “Sorry to intrude here, gentlemen, just need to check a few things.” He started in on giving Sherlock a detailed exam, drawing bloods himself, working around John without entertaining the thought of moving him. That was decidedly not going to happen. They’d extubated Sherlock swiftly last time, and that hadn’t gone very well in the long run, but keeping a conscious man intubated was just not on. 

He looked over to Sherlock, speaking softly to him. “I’ve got to put you back under, or pull this tube. I don’t like either option. Do you feel like you are going to be able to carry on breathing, or are you still very worn down? I’d rather put you under and keep breathing for you, if you’re too tired for this still.” It wasn’t exactly a typical question, he’d normally have just pushed a sedative and watched for a few more days to see how he was faring, but this was far from a typical patient. “Really think about it, Sherlock, you can’t... your body isn’t going to withstand another round of this.” 

Sherlock looked up at John and his brows knit. He tilted his head toward the man. He squeezed on John’s hand and looked at him in question. 

A small group appeared in the doorway. Mycroft held a hand up to them, sensing the tension in the room. He watched John and his brother, eyes narrowing the same way Sherlock’s did as he observed them.

John drew in a deep, slow breath as he tried to master himself. The idea of watching Sherlock close his eyes and fade away from him again was nearly paralyzing. He closed his eyes and thought of what he’d advise any other family member to do, giving himself a single, tight nod before looking back at Sherlock. “You should let him sedate you, give yourself a chance to heal up a bit more. I’ll stay right here, okay? And in a few days we will pull you up and see how you are.” 

Sherlock looked relieved and nodded as best he could. He squeezed John’s hand again before pressing his head closer to the man.

Mycroft cleared his throat. “We came to say hello. We’ll be quick and then back out of the way. Then you can rest, Sherlock. Is that alright with the two of you?”

Sherlock made a face of resignation and rolled his eyes.

John reluctantly pulled himself up and out of the bed, dragging his hands over his face as he stepped back, making room for Sherlock’s family to speak with him. He took the moment to step out in the hall, pressing the heels of his hands to his eyes and nearly doubling over with his back to the wall, breathing as deep and slow as he was able. He was riddled with doubt, terrified that he was making the wrong call, fearful of watching Sherlock go back under. He gave himself a full three minutes to panic before dropping his hands away and correcting his posture, staring off at nothing as he collected himself again. 

Molly appeared at John’s side. She said nothing, just slid an arm around him and stood there with him.

Sherlock’s parents, Mycroft, and Greg all took turns telling him in various ways to get better, that they’d see him when he woke up. Sherlock was appropriately surly in one way or another with all of them. Mummy stroked his curls and shook her head. “Be nice, Sherlock.”

Mycroft turned to Mark, “So he’s going to be sedated?”

Mark was already drawing it up, concerned with the stress Sherlock was undoubtedly under with a machine breathing for him. “For a few days, yes. I think it’s the best course, John seems to agree. This will let him continue to rest and we can slowly back it off, let Sherlock ease into taking over his own breathing. In fact, I’m sorry to do this, but I think it best if we get started as soon as possible, his vitals are already dipping.”

Mycroft nodded and the Holmes family, plus Greg filed out of the room, Mummy patting Sherlock’s foot as she went. Mycroft paused by John and Molly. “He’ll want you with him. Thank you for giving us the time.”

John set his jaw, the muscle jumping as he mastered, at least externally, the nearly debilitating fear. He walked back into Sherlock’s room as Mark was speaking to him, taking up Sherlock’s hand and running his palm over Sherlock’s head.

“We will taper this off over a few days, Sherlock, let you get used to breathing again. Won’t hurt a bit.” 

John pulled Sherlock’s hand to his chest and tipped his head down slightly, brushing his lips along Sherlock’s knuckles before clearing his throat. “I’ll be right here,” he whispered, in the bloody fight of his life to keep himself superficially calm for Sherlock’s sake. 

Mark looked down at Sherlock as the man’s pressures began to slowly fall, his body already taxed. “Ready?” 

Sherlock squeezed John’s hand and did not let up. His eyes slid to Mark and he gave a tiny nod. He looked back to John, his fingers still tight around John's. His eyes were full of a million things he wanted to say to John, all on a backdrop of fear.

John leaned in as Mark slowly began to push the medication. “I’ve got you, Sherlock. I know you’re in there, you’re going to be okay. I’ll be right here, it’s going to be okay,” he whispered, his voice blessedly steady and calm as he spoke to him. When Sherlock’s fingers started to go lax, the medication swiftly starting to take him down, he added, “I love you. I’ll be right here.” 

Sherlock watched John until his eyes closed. His fingers went limp against John’s as his whole body relaxed back into the bed.

Jim sipped a cup of tea in the lowest level. Sherlock sat across from him staring into the fire. 

“I told you that you’d be back.”

Sherlock smiled as he drew the tea cup to his lips, “Yes, the difference is, I came back by choice.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for your kind words and encouragements. The amount of comments is beautiful, but a little overwhelming to try and respond to each one individually. Rest assured we read each and every one. If you have questions we'll try our utmost to answer you (unless it's spoilers!)

John did not move for several minutes after Sherlock sank back under. When he finally did, it was only to shuffle closer, resting his forehead on the pillow beside Sherlock, gritting his teeth and breaking apart. He clutched Sherlock’s limp hand to his chest and silently began to weep with great, wracking movements that tore through his entire body, pulsing light behind his tightly closed eyes. He hardly made a sound as he stood there shaking, terrified down to his bones. 

Mark kept an eye to the monitors, trying to give John a moment of privacy as he leaned over Sherlock's bed, clinically concerned for Sherlock as well though he did believe they’d made the right call.

Molly came into the room quietly and caught sight of the men instantly. It was very clear that John was at his limit, breaking apart as he somehow kept his feet. She walked to John's side and stroked her hand through his hair, trying to soothe him in his distress. Her voice was soft, “You’re okay. You’re safe and he is safe. It’s going to be okay. He wouldn’t give you up for anything.”

John took a long time to come down from the sharp grip of fear, unwilling to let go of Sherlock. The monitors were ineffective with John wrapped so close around Sherlock, his own electrical signals throwing off the readings.

Mark gave him as much time as he could before finally speaking up. “John, I really need to see what his heart is doing, can you let him go for me?” 

John nodded as he set Sherlock’s hand back in position and slowly picked his head up, stepping back. Sherlock looked just as he had done before, small and hollow. Gone. John was not aware he'd made a small, pained sound of distress at the sight of him until it hit his ears. He pressed a quaking fist to his lips as he crossed his arms over his chest, stepping back and staring at Sherlock. 

“What if he doesn’t come back,” he whispered to Molly, nearly choking on the words, “I just… he… so close and-” he shook his head and dragged in a wavering breath, his lower lip trembling enough to make him bite down on it. 

Molly rubbed a soothing hand against his back. “He’s coming back. He’s come back twice for you. He’ll come back this time. Sherlock Holmes does not deal in what-ifs.”

Jim rolled his eyes as he picked up a biscuit. “Bit dramatic isn’t it? All this… declaring love and weeping. Honestly, Sherlock. It’s disgusting. I have to live in here, the least you could do is not-” He wiggles his fingers indicating everything. “that…”

Sherlock smirked as he sipped his tea. “Oh, but then I wouldn’t be having near as much fun with you in here.”

“I think I prefered you beating me in the padded cell.”

Mark pointed up at Sherlock’s monitor. “Right choice, John. His heart was already working too hard. Let’s just let him rest, see how he is in the next twelve hours. He’s very suddenly breathing again and he’s not down in a coma, that’s improvement, okay? Exactly what we wanted. It’s going to be alright, I think.” 

It was too much. John could feel his stomach twisting on him as his color tinged green. He was suddenly out the door, running blind to the lav and narrowly making it before he hit his knees, the door still open, violently sicking up as he gripped the porcelain. 

\---

The following twelve hours were promising. Sherlock’s vitals stayed steady and strong. Mark slipped into the room early that morning with Sherlock’s chart, reading over the notes from the night. He sat down in the chair Mycroft had been occupying so frequently. John watched him as he spent several minutes reading, before standing up and examining Sherlock himself. When he returned, he faced John fully, speaking quiet and steady to him. “Going to ease the machine back today. Have any suggestions or concerns?”

John shook his head before running a hand over his face. “I’ve not uh, no. I don’t… are you sure he’s… is he strong enough for you to back it off yet? He was so… have you run labs today? He sounds a bit rattly in that left lung, I don’t know, maybe we should-” he trailed off, exhausted, hardly having trusted himself to fall asleep and take his focus off the monitors despite the fact that Sherlock had every sort of monitor affixed to him, measuring his heart rate and blood pressure, his temperature, his breathing. 

“We’ve been culturing for pneumonia every other day. So far, nothing though you know the odds of VAP. Hoping we avoid it. I would like to get him off the vent as soon as possible. I’m going to back it off one breath a minute. I’m doing it while I’m here, doing rounds and close by. He’s tired, but we need to build him back up.” Mark watched John, taking in the progressively growing sunken quality to his bloodshot eyes, the constant, faint tremble along his limbs. He gentled his voice. “Would you like a pill while I’m going to be in the building? Sleep through the day?”

John shook his head, staring at Sherlock as he ran the information thought his sluggish mind. “Yeah, one breath… yeah… good start. See how he does on it. Okay. That sounds like a workable plan. I uh, no, I don’t need a pill. I can sleep.” 

Even if Sherlock did not take that extra breath per minute, he wouldn’t come to any real harm. John was at a point where sleep really wasn’t an option any longer, and that was as safe a way to do this, with Mark here and the vent on, the monitors watching for him. 

Mark set the chart aside and got to his feet. “Good, you should rest while you can. I have a feeling when he’s back up, you’re going to have your hands full.” He moved to the ventilator, printing out a last readout and then getting into the programming to change the levels. One less mechanical rise and fall of Sherlock’s chest per minute would give Sherlock's body enough time to think about filling in for the machine. Once set, Mark leaned back against the wall and waited, keeping a watchful eye to see how Sherlock would respond, if at all.

Jim looked around the interior of the massive staircase as he and Sherlock strolled up the stairs, hands in his pockets, a bounce to his step like a child on the way to the sweet shop. “Are we going to have to sit in the window? Could be romantic I suppose, curled up with tea in the window seat, leaning against one another while we read. _Adorable_ , even.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes and carried on in silence, fluidly moving along the steps until they reached the landing with the large bay window. He gestured to the seat. “Sit down, shut up, and drink your tea.” He sat down, knees sprawled out as Jim took the space opposite and stared out the window, ignoring the way his own face reflected back at him from the pristine glass. 

“Look, Sherlock. You might get a little sunshine today.” 

Sherlock sipped at his mug and rolled his eyes. "Drink your tea, Jim."

John was out nearly the moment he sat down. He'd intended to keep watch for a short while, see what Sherlock did with the ability to try breathing. His body clearly had different ideas, demanding that he rest. He blinked twice, his eyes failing to open again after the third time.

Mark nodded as he watched John slowly drop out, pleased to see him sleeping. He left the men alone, starting in on his day. 

Mark could not be more pleased with the reports he was receiving as Sherlock took to the newest setting. Several hours later Mark stopped by the room, checking on Sherlock and John. Neither of them had shifted since he'd left. It was a relief to see John still down hard in the chair at Sherlock's side.

Mark walked over quietly, very careful not to disturb John, and looked over the printout from the ventilator showing how Sherlock had done with his breathing. Nearly half an hour after the setting had been changed, Sherlock had started picking up the missing breath himself. Mark made the decision then to take the machine down one breath per minute, per day. That put it at five days to go before letting Sherlock off the chemical sedation. It was three more than they’d originally talked, but the plan seemed the most likely to be successful. He sent off a page to respiratory to have a pulmonologist take a look at the latest stats from the ventilator, but did not anticipate them recommending anything else.

\---

John passed the next five days in a haze of blurred sleep and gut-wrenching concern. Mark often found the former soldier pacing, staring out the window, or curled on his side watching Sherlock from the recliner. Despite numerous offers for a room to himself, John refused to leave. Sherlock was progressing, at the least, his vitals holding as he effortlessly picked up the missing respirations. On the fifth day, Mark set the ventilator to breathe only when Sherlock took too long to do so on his own.

Mark walked into the room on the sixth day with the vent readouts. “John, good news. The machine hasn’t breathed once for him in the past twenty-four.”

He handed over the readouts for John to look over himself, setting in on examining Sherlock. He looked back to John and nodded, "I don't want to keep him down any longer. He's due for another round of sedation, and we are just going to skip it. I don't see any reason to keep him down an longer."

Sherlock sat in the small area just at the top of the stairs with Jim. “I must say, Sherlock. This is a beautiful place you have here.” 

Sherlock smiled, “Thank you. I’ve found it serves me rather well.”

Jim chuckled as they sipped tea. “Will you be back?”

Sherlock nodded, “I’m always here. I’ve let you out of the room now. You can find me when I need something, if you’re bored.”

“Playing in your mind? Who could be bored in here?”

Sherlock’s lips quirked up, “You flatter me.”

Jim snorted, “You stroke your own ego.” He tilted his head. “That’s your cue dearie… don’t be a stranger now.” Jim took Sherlock’s teacup from him as the man started to fade away.

Sherlock took his time coming up out of it, giving John little more than an occasional twitch of his fingers for an hour or so. John was seated on the side of Sherlock's bed, the railing dropped down, constantly carding his fingers through Sherlock's hair. Mark had extubated him already, given that he'd been breathing a solid twenty four already. Sherlock had a humidified mask over his face, oxygen flowing fast and hard, a nebulizer attached to help break up the slight bronchitis he had clinging in his lungs. The head of the bed was elevated enough that Sherlock was comfortably reclined. 

John had just taken the treatment off, talking to Sherlock in steady Pashto about nothing at all as he tried to get him to wake up. Sherlock began to stir under his hands and John leaned in close, calling to him as he rubbed a warm hand over Sherlock's chest vigorously. "Come on, Sherlock, wake up. Open your-"

Sherlock’s eyes slowly fluttered open, blinking into focus as he found John’s dark blue irises staring down at him. 

He stopped talking when Sherlock suddenly complied, his heart quite suddenly mastering Olympic gymnastics as it flipped and twisted in his chest. He'd thought he'd be prepared for this, he really had. His lips moved, soundless as his lower lashes slowly stuck together, eyes overly bright and throat constricted. He gave Sherlock a smile and brushed the backs of his knuckles along his cheekbone. "Hi," he managed before leaning in and tipping their foreheads together, breathing deeply as relief settled around him like a warm blanket.

After a few lingering moments he leaned to the side and grabbed a cup of water he'd already poured, anticipating Sherlock's thirst, lid and straw capping the ice securely in the Styrofoam. He held it on his thigh as he looked back to Sherlock, studying his face as he took his hand. "Take a few slow breaths, yeah? Nice and easy, okay Sherlock, nice and easy."

Sherlock nodded slowly, doing as he was bid to the best of his ability as he shrugged off the last of the sedative. He gave John a soft smile as he reached for the water, taking the mask away from his face long enough to get a drink. The water was cool and relief reflected in his expression. He handed the water back, speaking to John in baritone gravelly from the swollen tissues and disuse. "Promised I wouldn't leave you again." Sherlock's hand came up, slow and shaking, to touch John's face.

John took the water and set it aside, wrapping his hand around Sherlock's fingers at his cheek, the other putting the humidified mask back over Sherlock's nose and mouth. His eyes flicked to Mark and then back to Sherlock. 

"Let's not test John's faith like that again though, yeah?" John said softly, his voice far from steady. He took Sherlock's hand from his face and held it to his chest, breathing rough in an effort to keep his chin still. Jesus, it had been _weeks_. 

Sherlock nodded. "How long this time?" He winced from the pain of using his raw vocal chords, taking in how rough his voice was and how stiff his joints were. He'd been down longer than he'd expected. "More than a couple days."

Mark nodded as he watched, "Six total. We decided to go about things with a bit more caution, ensure that you were ready. You are. Welcome back, Sherlock." He touched the man's shoulder. "Now, if you would. Stay up and talk to that man. He hasn't stepped foot out of this hospital." Mark smiled as he took one last listen to Sherlock's lungs.

John had three days growth on his jaw, and was down at least eight pounds in the last month. He smiled gently at Sherlock and whispered to Mark for the spray that would ease Sherlock's throat, taking the mask off his face and taking Sherlock's chin in hand with thumb and pointer, pulling down and swiftly spraying to soothe the inflamed tissues. 

"How are you feeling?" He asked as he put the mask back in place. 

"Like I've been put through the wash and wrung out. Chest is sore, infection or just from the machine?" Sherlock's thumb trailed over John's cheekbone. "I missed you. I- sometimes I could hear you."

Mark pulled back, sliding the stethoscope into his pocket. "Bit of both. Infection is minor and you've just had a breathing treatment. Going to make you cough a few times an hour just to be sure, and you've got to breathe into my little doodad here," he tapped the lung capacity tester on the side table, "every half hour or so. I'll let you alone for an hour though, been a hard month for you."

John squeezed Sherlock's hand. It had been just shy of four weeks since Sherlock coded the first time. He could hardly believe how much time had slipped away from him in the vacuum of the hospital. 

Sherlock nodded, not taking his eyes off John. He kept stroking John's face. "I was- concerned, worried that I would fail you and not manage to come back up. There are a tremendous amount of stairs to climb. My head is-" He closed his eyes and tipped his head slightly to the side, "strange." He opened his eyes again, studying John's face before giving him a gentle smile. "No moustaches, but I was right. The stubble suits." He was quiet for a moment before he spoke again, quiet and almost hesitant. "How is- everything else?"

John shook his head, closing his eyes for a moment. He'd ignored Mary completely since she'd shown up unwelcome to Sherlock's room, not allowing his mind to the subject at all. He couldn't handle it, not on top of this. Not while Sherlock kept giving up breathing and the crash cart always sat, massive, red, and ominous directly outside of his room. Not while Mary's gun had lodged that bullet in Sherlock's liver. No. No, he couldn't do those things. 

"Doesn't matter. Let's get you feeling better, yeah? We can put a warm compress on your chest to help if it's hurting." He looked over to Mark, who was oddly staring at him. John arched a brow and looked away, back to Sherlock. "Yeah I was frightened as well. I'm- it's good to see you."

Sherlock's brow furrowed, "Discomfort is not that marked." He stared at John, his mind racing as details started sluggishly cropping up. Stubble. three days worth: still not sleeping well, clothes loose fitting, cheeks a bit more hollowed than the night they'd confronted Mary. 

"Don't have to worry about the cycling then... lost the weight." His spoke hesitantly, his words selected with great care. "You should check on her. It does matter. I- I will be here when you're done. I'll always be here."

John swallowed around the stinging bile in his throat and shook his head. "I don't even know where she is, Sherlock. It's fine, really it is. If there was trouble, I'd have heard." He squeezed Sherlock's hand and reached forward, touching the side of Sherlock's face where some of the tape that held the tube in place had left residue along his cheek. "You've just woken up after all this time, I'm not leaving. Have to throw me out." His voice was wavering slightly and his chin wobbled on him, forcing him to adjust himself constantly to keep his composure, shoulders very lightly shaking as he breathed. 

Sherlock let out a small sigh, "Only meant call. It's- fine. Okay. I-" He looked tired. "I- I'm sorry." He leaned his head toward John. "It rained. When you cried, it rained."

Mark quietly slid out of the room, closing the door behind him to give the men their privacy now that the conversation had become so deeply personal. 

John's chin dipped and he bit the inside of his cheek. "God, I'm sorry. I didn't think you could hear me. I, Jesus, that didn't help much, did it? I'm sorry, Sherlock. I- it looked... bad, really, _really_ bad for awhile there. I just… yeah, got scared. I'm sorry."

"No- it. It helped. My mind palace... I would sit in the window and watch it rain. It helped to know I was working so hard for a reason. The worst of it though-" Sherlock shook his head. "Disconcerting to be locked in a cell in your own head with-" He cleared his throat and winced, "Doesn't matter. It's sorted."

John's brow knit and he reached up, sliding his hand over Sherlock's head, nails lightly grazing Sherlock's scalp. "With what, Sherlock?" He asked softly, scooting closer, greedy for this now that Sherlock was awake and talking, breathing, his heart steady and his pressure holding, color on his cheeks even if he was still too pale. 

"Not what. Who." Sherlock looked away before looking back up to John. "I...keep a mental room where I lock away things that cannot be forgotten but cannot run loose. He has his own, just for him and nothing else. Moriarty." He loosed a brittle laugh, which swiftly tipped him into harsh coughing. He leaned forward, arms wrapped around his gut as his lungs spasmed with racking cough, wincing around gritted teeth when it finally subsided. "Sometimes I could hear you and I just couldn't get out. He laughed and laughed."

John stared at Sherlock as the color drained from his own face, a slow building ring snapping across his hearing. He was quiet for more than a minute, his throat working as he tried to process that. "I-" he breathed, hearing himself through cotton, "I didn't… oh, god, you-" he pulled a hand back, dragging shaking fingers across his mouth, tasting copper at the back of his throat. He'd sat there, crying like a fucking idiot, while Sherlock was locked in his head with his greatest enemy, his biggest fear in the world. 

Sherlock brow furrowed, "John?" He shook his head. "He- he was only reason I kept fighting sometimes. A construct of my brain to keep me angry, keep me alive." He wrapped fingers in John's shirt. "It was my brain reminding me that I had to come back to you."

John reached down with freezing fingers and wrapped his shaking palm around Sherlock's hand at his shirt. He was still in grey sweats and a simple cotton tee, complete with a hooded, zip down black jumper over it all, socked feet and trainers. He'd not really seen a reason to change his clothes often. 

"I, g-god I am sorry that...that sounds so...I didn't know you were _suffering_ I-" he was going to be sick. He was breathing too fast, his vision blurring at the idea of what Sherlock had been experiencing all that time. He'd tried to let him go, tried to be reasonable, and still he'd hurt him. "I-" he shook his head, swallowing against his swiftly watering mouth. 

"John, whatever is going through your head, stop it. It wasn't just him. Molly helped too. I- stop, it's- stop I can see you thinking. You- I refused to leave you. I will always refuse to leave you. You've stuck with me despite everything, even- even discovering me in a drugs house." Sherlock looked away then, the first admission that he'd been using for anything other than a case weighing his words down.

"Don't be an idiot," John said with shaking fondness, exhaling slowly as he tried to get himself under control. "I was angry, but not going to leave you. God no." He cleared his throat, trying to get himself back under control. "Sorry," he breathed, leaning back and dashing a hand across his face, "been… difficult. Not- god not compared to what you've been going through though."

Sherlock shook his head as he responded. "Different. No worse, no better. Just different." Sherlock studied John for a moment before speaking again. "Come up here? Like when I woke up last time? I- I'd like a small nap. God that sounds ridiculous. Just a small, not drugged, not breathing with a machine, nap. How am I still so tired?"

 _Last time_. When John had been giving Sherlock permission to die. 

A brilliant shiver ran up his spine and scattered across his shoulders as he nodded, toeing off his trainers and shifting slightly, taking a moment to slot himself beside Sherlock as he had the one and only other time he'd settled in next to him. He tentatively reached out, one arm under his own head, the other resting over Sherlock's heart. 

"Your body has been working overtime. It's totally normal that you'd be tired."

Sherlock covered John's hand with his own, curling his fingers around John's. "Feel like I've been doing nothing and have run a marathon all at once." He tipped his head to John's. "Couldn't have come back without you. Thank you for not being as selfish as I would have been. I- I couldn't have been strong enough to do what you have done." His voice was growing quieter as he spoke. His eyes drooped as he nuzzled his head close to John.

John said nothing as Sherlock dropped off, gritting his teeth and breathing shallow. Of all the things he did not need to hear, that was decidedly one of them. He'd lost Mary, and to know that were positions flipped, he'd have been left to fend alone cut right down deep into the careful packaging where he stored his panic. He gripped Sherlock tighter as the world began to spin out of control, his shoulders suddenly jerking as though sobbing, though his eyes were dry and he kept a tight hold of his breathing. _Jesus_. 

His mouth began to water again as his gut twisted. He was so utterly lost. Everything was gone, all of it. He should have told Mary to shove it that night, gone home, and eaten the round as planned. He lay there while Sherlock napped, just trying to damn well breathe.

Sherlock's chest ached as he slowly woke. He curled closer to John on instinct, seeking out the warmth and comfort of the body beside his. He slowly opened his eyes, smiling to himself as he got a proper look at John. His grip tightened on John's jumper as he spoke, the words nearly croaking. "Morning... how long was I down?" He coughed, wincing as his lungs tried shift the clinging infection.

John cleared his throat as Sherlock eased closer to him. He tipped his wrist, looking at his watch. "About two hours," he said gently, allowing Sherlock to move as he wanted. "You sound a little congested, should likely give you another treatment and make you cough that out. Think you can manage? Mark just gave you morphine about ten minutes ago." 

He was calm with Sherlock, despite being a bit closed off from him, his touch warm and words gentle. 

Sherlock nodded, "Getting this out seems to be my best course of action." His hand was gentle on John. "I saw you all the time in Serbia. Not once in my mind. You were real, here. My mind couldn't pull you up as a comfort because I could hear you. I- I am sorry you had to go through that. I came back as fast as I could."

John was pulling himself up out of the bed to get the nebulizer when he stopped and looked back at Sherlock, confused. "I don't… I don't understand. How do you mean, saw me here? Mycroft explained that you were only in Serbia about a month, but you were gone for two years. It's- we don't have to talk about it, Sherlock. There is a lot going on. I'm just glad you are here and that you're still with me." 

His fingers moved of their own accord as he cracked open packaging, setting up. "I did go see you every Sunday, though. Every Sunday. Even after she-" he cleared his throat, fully unable to speak of Mary. "I missed you. It was...yeah...lonely. Forget how to be alone so fast, or at least I did. Spent so much time alone before I met you, and it was always alright, it was. I couldn't seem to manage it after."

Sherlock listened to him, humming quietly as he considered John's words. "Serbia, I talked to you all the time. I could see you, almost feel you. I- you went to- every Sunday?" Sherlock took a deep breath that left him coughing. After he could breathe again he carried on, "In Serbia, my mind conjured you. But while I was down here, I couldn't conjure you up in my mind. Likely because I could hear you for real."

John flushed, feeling ever the fool for not understanding as he put the humming nebulizer over Sherlock's mouth and nose, replacing the normal mask, white mist fogging around Sherlock's head like a halo, medicine to open and clear the airways. 

"Sorry… I- just off, I'm sorry. I, god, I don't know what to say. I hope I helped a little, I’m sorry I was such a mess and that you could hear. I- you stopped on me a few times and-" he snapped his jaw shut and looked away, cleaning up his mess of wrappers and tape he'd made while setting up the nebulizing treatment to cover his distress. Sherlock did not need him bloody sobbing over him any more. Christ.

Sherlock began to speak, but his words were muffled and drowned out by the hiss of the breathing treatment. The irritation from being silenced was painted across his face. He breathed deeply. He watched as John moved about, waiting until he was within reach to snag John's hand in his own, squeezing lightly. Sherlock tolerated the medicine as he breathed it in, feeling better in slow increments as it worked to open his lungs up. 

By the end of the treatment, however, Sherlock was doubled over in violent, wracking coughs. Thick, painful masses dislodged from his lungs and the pain and disgust of it twisted his face. He pointed for the little basin and spat into it as soon as John handed it over. He clutched the basin to his chest as he sank back on the bed, panting, groaning slightly with every exhalation.

John stood by in sympathetic support, hating that Sherlock was so pained. "Ventilator for so long is brutal on the lungs, I'm sorry," he said gently, dropping a tissue into the dish just to make things a bit less terrible for Sherlock. "Keep taking deep breaths like that, we want to unstick those lower lobes. Nothing works a lung like a breathing person, no matter how fancy our machines." 

He settled a him next to Sherlock, one hand on his chest, the other watching Sherlock's monitors as he tried to shove _John_ somewhere else, utterly sick of _him_. He called up as much _Doctor Watson_ as he could manage, kind and knowledgeable at Sherlock's side. 

Sherlock kept taking the deep breaths. Over the next ten minutes he hacked and coughed until he was convinced he'd brought up actual lung tissue. He fell back against the bed after a bad patch of coughing, panting all over again. "Christ." Once his breathing slowed to normal, Sherlock was pleased to note that he could move air much more easily.

John tossed out the sputum and went to wash his hands, coming back with a cool cloth for Sherlock, putting the regular mask back over his face. "I know that hurts, I'm sorry," he said gently before abruptly swearing. "Oh my god," he cursed himself, pulling out his mobile, all John once more. 

He swiftly pecked out a shaking text, feeling like an utter arse for neglecting for _hours_ to let Mycroft know that his sodding brother was okay. 

_He's awake, stable, breathing. Everything is going as well as it possibly could. He's all here._

Sherlock arched a brow as John's phone pinged back.

_Thank you. Dr. Walthers rang me. We agreed you might be understandably distracted._

Sherlock rest his head back against the pillow once more. "Have you left the building at all?"

John slid the phone back into his pocket and looked at Sherlock as though he were insane. "Why on earth would I leave? Your brother sent everything I needed, and… and you are here… where else would I have gone?" 

John rubbed at the back of his neck. "You uh… there..." he cleared his throat and tipped his face to the ceiling for a moment, inhaling deeply. "Stable times were unreliable. I did go up to the children's ward for a few minutes one day, and I've walked this floor a few times. Gone and had showers, popped down to the canteen three times." He shrugged and looked down at his socked feet. 

Sherlock nodded at John's words. "John Watson, you never cease to amaze me. You do so much for me that I can never repay. I- I couldn't have done it. I could not have been so strong. I would have- I'd not have given you permission."

John swallowed hard, taking in a few sharp breaths to settle himself. "You heard that, then," he said, deadpan, feeling under review for his behavior. "You… you never would have wanted to be kept alive if you were not going to come out of it and… you'd been trying so hard, and then you-" he took another fast breath, pinching his pointer and thumb to his sharply burning eyes. That had been one of the worst days of his life. His chin dipped and he hummed, trying to gather himself. Finally he looked over to Sherlock, slowly dropping his damp fingers. 

"I just... god, I'm sorry, what a mess, I've just been a mess. I didn't want you hurting. I- you were so tired." 

Sherlock gave John his best 'This is a people thing and I don't get people,' face, honestly confused with John's reaction. "I told you as much before I went to sleep. I told you I couldn't have done what you did and thanked you for it. I- it let me know how bad things were... that I had to wake up, had to let you know I just needed time."

John ran a hand over the back of his neck, tired and confused. He nodded, looking down at the floor, feeling oddly flighty. He felt the odd man out, fitting neither here nor there, just drifting without anchor. "Okay," he said quietly, his voice soft and not nearly as strong as he typically would have made it. Gooseflesh ran down his arms and across his flanks, stressed and unsure, not exactly catching Sherlock's meaning. "Yeah...'course. You are…" _I love you_ "I just..." he cleared his throat, reaching down to the foot of Sherlock's bed as he had done the first day he'd been moved to the ICU, gripping Sherlock's toes over the blanket. 

"I love you, John. I'd have yelled and screamed and begged you to stay in my normal selfish way. I couldn't have been as strong as you. I- you look exhausted." Sherlock looked lost himself. He was unable to express himself in a way people understood on a good day. This was just upsetting them both.

John looked up sharply, half expecting to see the smug satisfaction of having got one over on him on Sherlock's face. When he was met with nothing but raw honesty, or as much as he could tell beyond Sherlock's flooring acting ability, his shoulders dropped and he moved to Sherlock's side, suddenly crawling back up in the bed. He slung an arm across Sherlock's chest and tucked his head down in the pocket of Sherlock's shoulder opposite his wound, closing his eyes and gripping him as tight as he dared. 

"I thought that you...thought you were saying you'd have left me. Everyone leaves me. I- I just- I-" his breathing hitched and he pressed his face down to Sherlock's chest as much as he could at that angle 

Sherlock sank a hand in John's hair. "I left you once. There is nothing on this entire planet that could drag me away from you again, John. _Nothing_." He trailed his fingers through the soft blonde strands. "You are- I cannot imagine my life without you. You are more than the work, more than anything. I was blustering about a case and all it took was that doctor saying something about you to make me shut up and stay still. What does that say?"

"That you were dying," and wasn't that the truth. He shifted closer, Sherlock's fingers in his hair already setting to rest nerves that had been on fire for weeks. "Your brother would not leave. He stayed. Only when you seemed on the mend properly a few days ago...he's been here. You two are such idiots." 

Sherlock kept his fingers going. "Wrong, I didn't care about dying... I cared about you."

John cleared his throat after a few minutes, breathing as slow and deep as he could, bone-weary, the weight of it much heavier now that Sherlock was not kissing death. "She sent me a recording of the heartbeat. Sounds… sounds strong." 

The corner of Sherlock’s mouth twitched up, "Of course the baby sounds strong. It's your child, how could it be anything but?" He scrubbed at John's scalp in slow, gentle movements.

John huffed an empty laugh at that. "Oh yes, so strong, cowering away from it all." He shook his head, sinking deeper against Sherlock. "I can't even… she won't even let me… said I stress the baby. Put it at risk." His fingers tightened in Sherlock's gown as he recalled the conversation. 

"Won't let you what?" Sherlock frowned as he continued petting John. "Try calling her. Please, John..." He took a slow, deep breath. "You mean the world to me. I just want you happy."

"She- I got so angry, Sherlock. So...angry. I- you know I've always wanted to be a dad. I've not...no folks, you know, and I always fancied the idea of...and now that it's happening she...I got angry. Wanted to shout. Really, really wanted to shout. She won't let me, says it stresses the baby, that I can't yell about what it is that I want, she-" he was breathing fast, his teeth clenched and eyes pinched shut. "You both must find me so bloody stupid."

"I don't think either of us finds you stupid. I don't find you stupid. She loves you. You should call her. Have her come. I'd like to see her... you could go have a coffee? I- I'm not good at this. John, she loves you. She- this, this wasn't part of her plan. She didn't shoot to kill me." Sherlock sighed as he tried to soothe John.

"Yeah, but she did. She did kill you. Had you been...had I been...she stopped your heart four times. I'd have helped her with her problem if she'd just told me. The pair of you treat me as though I need bloody protecting. I've- hell, I'm a veteran of war three times over I don't need protecting. And by my _pregnant wife_?" He dragged in a deep breath, shaking his head. "I can't understand why you want to see her, unless it's for her case. If that's it...let it rest. Please. I don't have the strength if you die on me again. I don't- I can't-" he hummed again, pressing to Sherlock.

Sherlock kept his hand going, though his hand started to shake. "I am sorry, John." There was nothing else to say, was there? John was likely to stay angry for months, years, forever. He took in a stuttered breath, tears stinging his own eyes. "Call, check on her at least?"

John did not move from Sherlock as he reached a terribly shaking hand into his pocket, pulling out his mobile and thumbing it on. He breathed slow and controlled as he pulled up Mary's number, pressing his thumb to the call button, closing his eyes and holding it to his ear, the other down over Sherlock's heart, listening to the comforting rhythm there.

Mary answered, keeping her voice down as she relaxed in her chair. "John, how are you?"

Sherlock stroked through John's hair, hand trembling as he did. He tried to breathe slow and deep.

John closed his eyes and grit his teeth, a shock of something white hot and agonizing ripping through his chest at how blasted _calm_ she was. He exhaled a grossly wavering breath and licked his lip, debating just hanging up. 

"Are you well," he managed, flat and brittle.

"In hiding, but well, yes. I've heard Sherlock is awake. I'm glad." Mary let her fingers drift across her stomach as she soaked up hearing from John at all.

"Sure you're just chuffed," John clipped back without thinking. God, but she sounded so normal. As though he'd gone to the office and she was just calling to see what he wanted for dinner, as though their entire lives had not been irrevocably shattered. His breathing caught, pain just as fresh as the day Sherlock had exposed the mother of his child for the duplicitous, murderous liar that she was. 

He cleared his throat, tipping his face to Sherlock's shoulder and dragging in a breath. "Well you sound...just fine...so I'll leave off. I don't want to hurt the baby."

Mary's reply was swift and sharp. "You don't care that I'm in hiding, don't care why? Fine. You've made it clear you do not want me. You don't have to worry about me or the child. After all, the baby is a part of me, how could you ever look at it without loathing it? I suggest you don't tell Mycroft though, well you _can_ if you prefer us both dead. Whatever you think best, John." Mary's voice cracked. Magnussen and now Mycroft. Wonderful. "I don't know how I'm going to get us out safe, but I'm going to try."

John flinched as though he'd taken a blow to the chest. When he replied, his voice was strained, hardly audible. "Well, I figured it had to do with your efforts at killing Magnussen, combined with that whole identity you kept from me, Mary. Of course I'm worried, which is why I'd texted before to make sure you were safe." He reached up and raked his hand through his own hair, avoiding Sherlock's fingers as he did so, anger and misery warring so hard they made him pull at his own hair viciously for a moment. "It's as though you want me to just be...Christ, Mary, I-" he swallowed and set the phone aside for a moment, breathing through the pull of tears until he had himself mastered. "Mycroft is not going to hurt you."

“My being in hiding has everything to do with Mycroft’s threats to me in person. I don’t expect you to be anything, John. This is incredibly hard on you. I shot Sherlock. I shot the man you love. I will keep me and the baby safe. Do you want to go to the scan?” Mary took a sharp breath. “I don’t know what you want from me right now. I don’t text because I feel it would be unwelcome, I don’t call for the same reason. I love you, though. I love you with all that I am and all that I have. I understand your anger. I do. You've every right to it.”

John sat up swiftly. “Mycroft… _Mycroft_ threatened you? When on earth…” he trailed off and then pressed a trembling hand over his eyes, breathing as slowly as he could, his other hand fisted hard in the sheets. “I’ll talk to him,” he croaked, clearing his throat as a tear streaked down his cheek, “I’ll talk to him. You don’t need to hide from Mycroft… he’s not going to hurt you.” John sank back down as he felt himself growing faint, exhaustion and stress getting the better of him. “I’ll talk to him. You’re safe from him at least. I- I don’t know if you need to be worried about…” 

He could feel it coming as he lay there against Sherlock’s chest. Could tell it was about to happen as sure as he was breathing, utterly powerless to stop it. The phone slid off the side of his face as his hand went cold and lax, eyes rolling up in his head as a blanketing darkness slowly pulled him down, overwhelmed with far too much stress for far too long, not nearly enough food or rest to support him. The phone came to rest beside Sherlock’s hand as John lay with his face pressed to the hollow of Sherlock’s good shoulder, suddenly out cold.

Sherlock swore. He hit the nurse button as he fumbled for the phone. His fingers found the speaker and he pressed it. “Mary?”

“Oh god, Sherlock. Is everything okay?" Her voice echoed around his small hospital room, clearly concerned.

“Given the circumstances, yes. I believe John has blacked out on us. I’ve called a nurse. I’ll text you. Go home, Mary. Mycroft won’t be a problem. Go home and take care of yourself and the baby.” Sherlock’s voice was tired and rough as he spoke to her. “Go home.”

Mary was quiet on the other end of the line for a few minutes. “Take care of him, Sherlock,” Mary replied softly. 

“Always do.” They rang off as the nurse came in the room. She took in a sharp breath and was gentle as she tried to wake John. “Doctor Watson?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wonderful artwork by [Jessica Mariana](http://jessicamarianaart.tumblr.com/)


	9. Chapter 9

John was down until ammonia cracked under his nose. He shot up, nearly falling off the bed, blinking wide-eyed and confused. The nurse reached out and steadied him as he got to his feet on the side of the bed, hand shooting out and wrapping around the bed rail to steady himself. He blinked several times, disbelieving, looking to Sherlock and then to the nurse. 

“I- I-” his face swept pale again and he had to slowly sink into his chair, propping his forehead up on his hand, resting his elbow on the armrest and breathing slow and deep. “Sorry... ’m sorry.”

Sherlock shook his head. “John, you need rest. Food as well. I’m awake, do you think you could eat and take a nap?” He closed his eyes and reached for the water after a moment. The nurse let him sip at it as she made sure John wasn’t going to fall out of the chair.

“If I get you a sandwich, could you eat it Doctor Watson?”

John nodded, dragging his hand over his eyes as he got himself slowly back together. He took a minute to recover before looking back to Sherlock. “I didn’t know. Mycroft- I didn’t know he-” John swallowed, feeling his ears filling with cotton as they rang. “There’s too...too much to manage, I didn’t know he- God,” he closed his eyes and pressed his hand back to his face, shaking his head. “I’m sorry, you... God you don’t need to worry about- Jesus, I bloody well _fainted_ on you. I’m sorry.”

“You, worry about you right now. I can handle my brother. Idiot that he is.” Sherlock made a face and shook his head.

The nurse came back in with a tray. “Turkey sandwich, some peanut butter and crackers, bit of orange juice and milk. Basically your normal diabetic tray to stabilize after a crash.” She set it down on the table and rolled it to in front of John before slipping back out, satisfied the doctor wouldn’t hit the floor on them.

Sherlock watched John. “Thank you.”

John pulled the orange juice away from his lips in lightly shaking fingers, looking at Sherlock in confusion. “Whatever for? Dropping out like a damned teenager swooning on you? Christ,” he shook his head, still hearing as though from very far away, feeling a bit too ill for the sandwich but making an effort at a cracker with a bit of peanut butter on it. 

Sherlock huffed out a hoarse laugh that set him coughing for a minute. He winced and cleared his throat. “For staying with me. For putting yourself so far down like this for my sake…” He pushed the button on the bed and raised himself up so that he could see better. “How long have I been in this bloody bed?”

John set aside the second cracker, deciding that the orange juice was going to have to cut it for now. "Few days shy of a month,” he said quietly, nodding. “It’s been a long time. You are likely to be a bit weak. They’ve been turning you now and again but, can only do so much.” 

Sherlock let out a small, frustrated sound. “I already want to go to Baker Street. This is ridiculous.” His nose wrinkled in distaste and his hand moved up to his face with no small amount of effort. Fingers grazed along the tube to his nose. “What is _this_ nonsense? How many bloody tubes do I have in me?” Sherlock looked borderline panicked as the severity of it all started to sink in. His discoveries pinpointed better than his brain had just how close to dying he’d been. 

John pushed the tray aside and stood, moving over to Sherlock and putting his hip back where he’d spent so much time on the mattress at Sherlock’s side. He reached out, taking Sherlock’s hand from the tube. “Couple more, mate, listen it’s okay now. You’ve pulled out of danger, been breathing on your own for a full day before we pulled you back up. ‘s alright, just be careful with yourself, okay?”

Sherlock looked up to John and tried to calm himself back to an acceptable level. His heart rate was up and he wrapped his hand around John’s. “Should sit back down. I’m sorry I got you up.” He closed his eyes for a moment. “John, I- this has been too hard on you. It’s all I do to you isn’t it? Drag you through hell.”

John shook his head and pulled Sherlock’s hand in close to his chest. the other splayed over Sherlock’s racing heart as his own tripped over itself. “Slow down, Sherlock. It’s alright. This isn’t just- it’s not just this, and my god my _wife_ did this to you, you’ve not done anything wrong, Sherlock, this wasn’t your fault. Not at all your fault. This was done to you. Please, it’s okay, I’m fine, I’m just fine. I’m just stupid, haven’t slept enough...everyone’s been telling me but I just- this is my fault.”

“Not your fault.” Sherlock’s heart rate crept back down in slow increments. He closed his eyes as he spoke, “I love you.” He looked back up to him. “Get some rest? I’m exhausted again. It’s so stupid. I hate this. How am I tired _again_ already? Don’t answer that. I know the answer. It’s still stupid.”

John shook his head with a hint of a smile, looking back to Sherlock’s monitors before returning his focus to him. “Okay, yeah, get… get some sleep,” he said quietly, a nervous thrill in his chest at the idea of watching Sherlock close his eyes again. He swallowed and then looked back to him, exhaling slowly. “I’ll be right here, you’re going to be fine.”

Sherlock kept his eyes on John for a moment, taking in the swiftly returning tension. “I’m here John. I’m not going back down. I’m okay.” His thumb rubbed slow circles on John’s hand as he held it. “I- it’s okay now.”

John had to look away, breathing tight and controlled. “I know, I am just being foolish. I’ll sleep, I will.” 

Reluctantly he let go of Sherlock’s hand and eased off the side of the bed, going for his chair once he’d put the rail back up. He finished the orange juice with his eyes to Sherlock and his monitors, needing to see for himself how Sherlock’s body was going to respond to sleep. He was exhausted himself, but he still had Mycroft to handle before he could properly rest. That Mary was in hiding over _him_ was unacceptable. 

Sherlock shook his head, “Not foolish, understandably apprehensive. I need to contact my brother. He needs… dealing with. I said I would.” He opened his hand, “I also said I would text her to let her know you were okay.”

A shadow passed over John’s face and he looked away. “She doesn't care,” his voice was tight and gruff, thoughts to do with Mary confusing and hard to handle. “Don’t get smart with Mycroft over this, Sherlock. She killed you four bloody times, your brother is right to protect you. I just don’t want her harmed, yeah?”

“She does care. I won’t be smart. I would like to speak to him about it though. He cannot threaten my friends.”

John ticked the corner of his lip up and shook his head, looking down to his hands. He’d been twisting them, not realizing the nervous movement, suddenly biting the inside of his cheek and smoothing over the reddened skin. “She isn’t your friend. Hell, she’s not even my friend. This, all of this, very, very not good. Not what people who love each other, or like each other, do. Mycroft…” he shrugged, “if she wasn’t carrying my child- I don’t know what I would have done, Sherlock, I don’t. Seen her in jail at the least.”

Sherlock closed his eyes. “At least let her know you are okay. She was worried.” His voice was quieter as he spoke. “I’m sorry this is so complicated.” He looked up to John again, the exhaustion showing in his eyes.

“Sleep,” John said quietly, shaking his head. “Don’t worry over it. Just rest. It’s all okay, Sherlock, just sleep.” He leaned back in his own chair, trying to give Sherlock the ability to stop thinking about all of this, watching him silently, his mind scattering away from thoughts of Mary as it had been the last month. 

Sherlock closed his eyes again and soon the monitors gave his sleep away, rhythms settling into even, gentle blips across the screens. 

John watched him closely for the next ten minutes, his eyes glued to the monitors with his heart in his throat. When he was sure Sherlock’s vitals would hold, he got up and collected his mobile, stepping out in socked feet into the hall, watching Sherlock through the glass as he dialed Mycroft, listening to it ring.

Mycroft answered the phone, his full attention to John. “Is everything okay, John?”

John nodded as he watched Sherlock. “Yeah, yeah he’s resting, things look... good, I think. Better than they’ve been since getting here, at least.” He cleared his throat and closed his eyes, his heart rate making him feel sick. “Listen, Mycroft. Mary- she’s in hiding from fear of you. Do I need to know something?”

Mycroft cleared his throat in an uncomfortably “There may have been words exchanged the night she came by the hospital that could have led her to believe I wished her harm.” 

_Lies_.

John sighed and pressed his fingers to his eyes hard enough to see stars. “Listen, I- Christ, I can’t blame you. In fact, I am just grateful you didn’t have her arrested while she’s pregnant… I just, Mycroft don’t hurt her. I need your word that you’re not going to have her killed, or injured, or abducted. I- please. I have to sort this out and I don’t think he’s interested in finishing the job. I- I can stay here with Sherlock but I need to know that she is safe and protected for right now. That’s a hell of a thing to ask you, I know, god how I know, but I need time to figure this out.”

“Even I will not harm a pregnant woman, John. She is safe for now, at least from me.” Mycroft sighed, “I apologize if I caused problems for you.”

John nodded, “It’s fine, Mycroft it’s fine. I likely would have done the same. He’s not my family, but it’s still…” he shook his head and took a deep, slow breath, “I’m sorry I brought all this on, Mycroft. I’m…I’ll set it right, I will. Somehow, I’ll- I’ll fix it. I’ll keep you updated.” 

He looked back to Sherlock through the glass, nearly desperate with the want to go in and shake him awake just to see if he would come back. 

“This is not your fault. Thank you for understanding and for watching over him. I’ll be in touch.” The line went dead as Mycroft set the phone down.

Mark peered in the doorway and nodded to John. “Afternoon.”

John cleared his throat roughly as he pushed the phone back in his pocket, looking at the outer door to Mark. He gave him a lame smile, his lips barely moving, before tipping his head to Sherlock’s bed. “He’s been asleep fifteen minutes, vitals are holding, seems... seems okay.”

Mark nodded as he moved to Sherlock’s side. He listened as Sherlock breathed. “Lungs sound good. Still a bit diminished, but I don’t think it’s going to be hard for him to shake. Lab work looks phenomenal given everything he’s been going through. Heard you had a spell though.” There was no accusation in his voice. He looked up to John. “Have you thought about going home for some sleep in a real bed for a night? I don’t mean tonight, or even tomorrow… but soon? So long as he stays steady?”

John slid his hands in his pockets and shrugged. “Don’t really know where I would go. Could get a hotel room I suppose, whenever he gets sick of having me here.” That was an idea he really, _really_ didn’t want to consider. He took in a deep breath and shook his head. “I’m fine, that was a bit dramatic on my part, not sure what happened but I’m fine.” 

He shuffled closer to Sherlock’s bed, staring at him, his throat working as the whispers of fear wrapped around his spine. “Hard to see him down again.”

Mark nodded and hummed. “His levels are looking good. I think tomorrow we’ll switch him to a plain nasal cannula, see if he doesn’t like that better. I know he seems annoyed by that mask.” He wrapped his stethoscope over his neck and looked at John again. “He’s not going to kick you out. That man- I, John I’ve seen people come back from things before but this? He came back for you.”

John was staring at the floor, eyebrows raised and nodding with a grim expression. “Yeah... think you’re right,”, drowning in the guilt of it. Sherlock had been in his head with goddamn Moriarty. Had John just shut up, not forced his goodbyes, Sherlock might have been free of- he winced at the line of thought, shutting it down. That was absurd. Sherlock was alive. He was alive. That’s what mattered. 

“You need sleep. You look like Atlas at the moment. Get some rest while he’s asleep.” Mark moved back to the doorway. “You need anything?”

John shook his head, returning to his chair. He crawled up and dragged the blanket over his shoulder, getting as comfortable as he could there. When Mark left, John thumbed the screen open and pulled up Mary’s number, sending her a swift text. 

_You are safe from Mycroft. It is safe to go home, from that front._

Mary’s reply came less than a minute later.

_Thank you. You scared me earlier. Are you okay?_

John set his jaw and debated not replying, shifting to his side and setting the phone down on the armrest as he pulled his socked feet up into the recliner and closed his eyes. God, but he was tired. He drew in a slow breath and opened his eyes again, picking the phone back up. 

_I’m fine._

Mary’s answered once more.

_I’m glad. Get some rest. I love you._

John read the text with a deep frown, so furious he nearly just shut it off, setting the thing down before he gave into the urge to launch it across the room. He dragged the blanket over his shoulder and shut his eyes, feeling his heart racing hard against his ribs. For the smallest moment, he was disappointed Sherlock had survived. He’d have been able to pick up the Browning and make all this rubbish _stop._

He stared at Sherlock’s monitor, letting his heart slowly come down, trying to match Sherlock’s steady, slow breathing and willing himself to sleep.

Sherlock slept for close to five hours. He winced at how dry his mouth was when he swallowed. He saw John fast asleep and hit the button for the nurse. When she came in he held his finger to his mask and pointed to the water as he shifted the mask aside. She checked vitals as he drank the water and then helped him spray his throat. Sherlock lay back in the bed when she was gone, just watching John sleep.

“I’ve made a constant effort at getting him to rest, I assure you,” Mycroft whispered as he came into the room, moving directly to Sherlock’s side. He set his umbrella to the guardrail and looked his sibling over, deciding that he was pleased at how he looked. 

Sherlock pointed a finger at Mycroft, voice soft. “No more threatening people I like. Even if she did shoot me.” The look on his face softened though as he slipped to French. “I could hear you lot. While I was under. It rained anytime John cried.”

Mycroft hummed, French quiet in return. “Then I imagine the gardens are in full bloom. I did not threaten her in more than hypothetical situations, all which required John out of the picture. I admit, it was a surprise that she went into hiding over the conversation. I will not bother with her again unless a need arises. Do be careful, brother mine, I do not trust her in the slightest.” 

“You don’t trust anyone in the slightest.” Sherlock reached out and touched his brother’s hand. “How are they? Mummy’s not… crying, is she?” 

Mycroft looked down to Sherlock’s fingers and cleared his throat, not moving away. “Not any longer,” he said softly, “Father, however, is another story. I’ve been keeping him away, he’s been desperate to come read that blasted book over and over to you.” It was difficult to remember that Sherlock was not a small boy at times. He’d looked so tiny in that bed…

He angled his chin up and lightly cleared his throat, looking over at John before returning his focus to Sherlock.

Sherlock pointed to his cup and slipped his mask, “Please?” His voice was quiet. “Moriarty is in there. Sometimes he was the only thing to keep me going, make me angry enough to come back.” He looked down as he admitted it, as though ashamed of having the man buried in his head like that.

“That does not surprise me in the slightest, Sherlock,” Mycroft answered as he fetched his brother more water. He had his own demons in his own mental fortress, locked away where he could access them, but they could not roam free nor be unintentionally happened across. He handed the water over and looked to John, “Though, I do admit to having mistaken your driving force. Regardless, I am pleased you are on the mend.” Mycroft had narrowly got the words out before Sherlock was correcting him. 

“No you didn’t. It was always _about_ John. Moriarty taunted me about him until I got back up. That sort of thing” Sherlock sipped at the water as he looked to John. “He- I didn’t think-” He took a breath. “All the hell I put him through…”

Mycroft watched his brother throughout, taking in the subtle movements near his eyes, the way his forehead all but broadcast his sibling’s thoughts on his forehead. “Well, I believe it clear that he does. He’s quite a fantastic mess on his hands with that wife of his, though. He will have to sort it, Sherlock, and I’m not sure where it will lead. Please do remember that as you carry on.”

He was wildly concerned for his brother’s heart, not entirely sure what John Watson was going to do in the end. His brother was far more attached to John Watson than he’d ever entertained. 

Sherlock rolled his eyes, “John loves Mary. Mary loves John. They will move past this and be fine. Then they will have a child I will- dote upon in some way.” He sipped more water. Long fingers picked at the blanket in his lap. “I just want him happy, Mycroft.”

Mycroft reached out and wrapped his hand around Sherlock’s wrist where he picked at the blanket. He wasn’t sure what to say just then. What Sherlock outlined was indeed a possibility, though he would like to think not. 

“I am glad to see you up again, Sherlock. Truly. Do let me know if there is anything I can do for you, otherwise I intend to grant you the gift of not having to endure me overly much.” He gave Sherlock a fond smile as he leaned back, letting his brother go. 

Sherlock hummed at that. “Saving the world per usual dear brother?” His tone was warm, teasing. “I’m glad to be back. Annoyed at the current physical state I find myself in, but glad to be back.” He quirked the side of his mouth up and looked up to Mycroft.

Mycroft tapped his own nose to remind Sherlock to put the mask back in place, taking up his umbrella and turning to leave. “I’ll be in touch, brother. Keep mending.” 

John slept for another hour after Mycroft had left, slowly waking to a pounding head and a heavy heart. It took his exhausted mind several seconds to remember that Sherlock had come out of his medically induced coma and had fallen asleep. When awareness hit him, his eyes snapped open and he shifted quickly, his focus first going to the monitors before moving to Sherlock. 

Sherlock looked up from the tablet. “Hello Sleeping… well given the hair shall I say Beast?” There was a smile behind the mask. He glanced back to the tablet and made a few swipes before setting it down in his lap and turning his full attention to John.

John stared at him long enough to be sure the dream had not clung, and that Sherlock was indeed up, before shaking his head and dragging a hand over his hair. Sherlock sounded better, much better. It was incredibly relieving. He shifted and pressed the bottom of the recliner down, snapping it back to a proper chair before getting to his feet, setting the blanket aside. “How are you feeling?”

Sherlock nodded, “Better. Not as exhausted. You?” He watched John. After a moment he patted the bed beside him. His voice was hesitant. “I find myself enjoying when you sit here with me.”

John moved without hesitation, wanting to help. He pulled down the guard rail and settling a hip beside Sherlock. He looked him over, frowning at the slight yellowing at Sherlock’s eyes, though he figured it could be an effect of the lighting. “Anything hurting you? Can I get you anything?”

Sherlock wrapped his hand around John’s arm. “I’m okay. Been awake about an hour. Mycroft stopped by.” He took a slow, deep breath. “You look a little more rested, still tired.” He chewed on the inside of his cheek. “John, this-” He shook his head. “You are the only reason I fought. Thank you.”

John held himself very still, listening to Sherlock and slowly letting his focus slide to his own lap, licking his lip. “I wish you wouldn’t thank me,” he whispered, picking at his fingers in an effort to distract himself. “What did Mycroft want?”

“To look at me as far as I can tell.” Sherlock shook his head, “And to tell me he wouldn’t bother me much. It was- uncomfortable for both of us. Sentiment with Mycroft… Ugh.” He looked at John. “I’ll quit thanking you then. I did not mean to bother you.”

John looked up at him, shaking his head. “No, it… this is my doing and I-” he exhaled slowly and hummed, closing his eyes and trying to gather his thoughts. “I did as you asked and let her know I was alright. She’s perfectly fine, nearly unaffected by this. Outside of moving, I doubt she would have been overly fussed.” 

Sherlock sighed. “You love her. She loves you. This will pass, you will love her again.” There was an edge to his tone as he picked at the blanket with his other hand. “Besides, I’ll have a niece or nephew or… whatever it is the child is going to call me, to-” he waved the hand.

John shook his head. “She does not love me. What I felt- feel- felt for her was for a ruse. Like your target’s aides falling in love with a version of you. It was fake. Like you said, human error.” He closed his eyes, the words breaking apart, shards raining down in the pit where his heart used to be. He pulled in a slow breath, his eyes a bit harder than they typically were. “Thank you for putting my chair back. I mean it.”

Sherlock nodded, “You are welcome any time. You should- if you don’t want to go home. You should ah, go home, if you need to rest.”

John shook his head. “I don’t want to leave. Unless, unless you just... yeah I’ve been here a long time, haven’t I? You need your space. I’m- okay, yeah I’ll- should get some rest I suppose... I-” he cleared his throat and nodded, refusing to make a scene of himself. 

“I don’t want you to go.” The words fell out of Sherlock’s mouth in a rush. His hand tightened on John’s arm. “I don’t want you to leave. I just- if you need an actual bed. Baker Street will always be open as your home should you need it, John.”

John cleared his throat and nodded. “I need it,” he said softly. He’d pulled his ring off, and it was presently in his pocket, the hand hidden mostly from Sherlock’s view. “I don’t- I can’t um,” he pressed a hand over his eyes, Mary’s situation bombarding him now that Sherlock was not actively dying. “Christ. I need it.”

Sherlock smiled slightly at that. “Then you have it. Baker Street, so long as I occupy the space, shall be open to you as your home. It’s not- It hasn’t been right without you.”

John’s heart was slowly encased in lead, weighing him down heavily, his shoulders rounding down without his notice as he dragged through it all. 

Sherlock’s hand pressed over John’s, “Stay, with me, ” He muttered, suddenly irritated with how bloody stupid he sounded behind the oxygen, “This bloody mask!” Sherlock looked cross as he rubbed his thumb over John’s hand. “I’ve missed you. All this. I-” He shook his head. “I’ve been going mad.”

John closed his eyes and turned his hand over, squeezing Sherlock’s fingers. “Sometimes I can’t _breathe_ ,” he whispered, so faint it could hardly make it over the sound of Sherlock’s respiration, fogging the clear mask again and again. 

Sherlock twined his fingers with John’s. “It’s been difficult. I got bored, so bored. Nothing is the same.” He watched him as they sat there together. “I, John, I’m sorry. I never meant to make your life more difficult.”

John shook his head, opening his mouth and then snapping it shut again when he found himself unable to manage the weight of words. He closed his eyes and let himself breathe for a moment, squeezing Sherlock’s fingers. “I know, Sherlock, I know.”

Sherlock nodded and looked at their joined hands. “You are- I love you.” He nodded a sharp nod. “You always have a home with me.” Sherlock cleared his throat. “So- ah, yes.”

John looked up at him, studying Sherlock’s face for a moment. It took several minutes before he could find his voice, speaking softly. "I..." _wish you had told me, wish you had taken me with you, wish I'd never met her, can't live without her, can't live without you_ , "thank you."

He licked his lip and ran his thumb over the backs of Sherlock's knuckles. "See you've got the tablet, do you need anything else?"

 _You, Baker Street, the thrill of the game._ "No, I'm fine. My stomach is full. They- that is the worst feeling in the world." Sherlock gazed at John. _I want to take you home, put you to bed and promise nothing is going to hurt you again._ "You should eat something." _Come home with me, John. We'll fix everything. I'll fix you and Mary, just be happy. Won't you smile for me?_

John nodded, remembering his own discomfort when he'd been taken down. "I know, it's strange to be fed through that tube. We can start you on clear liquids today, likely, and ease you off that soon enough." He scrubbed a hand over his eyes and touched Sherlock's leg gently. "I uh, I think I'm going to go shower. Want to work at a cup of ice? Sometimes it just helps to chew something."

Sherlock nodded, "That sounds good. Please." He managed a small smile to John. His weariness showed on his face despite his efforts to keep it at bay. "Enjoy your shower. Take a few minutes for me? I'd like one." He wrinkled his nose. "Being bathed in a bed does not compare to a good shower."

John left the room in his socked feet, gone just long enough to fetch ice and a spoon. He grabbed the day's paper, knowing Sherlock could get it on the tablet but still wanting it for him. Something about the tactile experience. Sherlock likely wouldn't care one way or the other, but it was something. 

He smiled lightly as he walked back into the room and set the cup down on the tray, next to the folded paper. He set a ballpoint pen on top of the newsprint in case Sherlock wanted to write. "I'll be back soon, if you need anything the morning nurse, Ann, she is very capable and a nice woman. Don't bite, okay? She always manages to bring something good for me to eat." He moved to his chair, digging in the bag for his toiletries and fresh clothes. 

The little speaker rolled out of the pocket and he went still, his back to Sherlock, picking up the little recording of an ecstatic heart. After a moment he turned, still in a crouch, and held it up between thumb and pointer. "She brought me this in a bloody teddy bear." He shook his head and got up, arms full of his things, stopping to set the little round disk on the table next to the paper without another word, vanishing out in the hall to bathe.

Sherlock pressed the little disk and listened to the heartbeat. He'd never admit to the thrill and the sense of awe that came over him to listen to John's child's heartbeat. The sound filled the room at least six times before Sherlock set it aside and drew the paper to him. As John bathed, Sherlock worked the crossword and ate ice chips.

He longed to be home, sitting across from John, irritated at the man for having worked half the puzzle in ink while making horrible mistakes. Sherlock wasn't aware he was crying until the ink started to run on the paper.

John plodded back to the room with his damp hair every which way, teeth clean, shave kit in hand thought he'd not taken a razor to his face. He was staring at the floor, only looking up when he'd dropped his things into his bag. 

"Sherlock," he breathed, moving to the side of the bed and gently putting his hand on Sherlock's shoulder. "Hey... are you hurting?" 

Sherlock sniffed and shook his head. "N-no. I want to go home. I want to go home and sit in my chair and snipe at you and demand tea and-" His breath hitched as he fell apart. Sherlock's fingers twisted into the blanket as he sat there, shoulders shaking.

John dropped the side of the bed and settled his hip next to Sherlock before reaching out and wrapping his arms around him. "Hey," he whispered as he very carefully pulled Sherlock forward, sliding one hand into his hair, the other across Sherlock's shoulders, "we'll get you home, okay? I know it's miserable to be in hospital, I'm so sorry. You can still snipe at me, and I expect your tea demands." 

Sherlock buried his face against John, the mask having been left off while John was in the shower. His sat monitor chimed in warning as Sherlock clung to John in a tired way. "Everything is- I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." Exhaustion and morphine pulled at him. "I just want us all to be happy. Sounds strong, the baby. So happy for you." Sherlock's words were heartfelt as his fingers wrapped up in John's shirt.

John was pushing Sherlock back as soon as the monitors chirped at him, both hands on Sherlock's shoulders until he could see Sherlock's damp face. He shook his head and pressed the mask over Sherlock's face. "Deep breaths for me, Sherlock, slow down. It's all okay, just breathe," he tried to soothe, jamming down on the call button with his other hand as Sherlock went very pale, a light tinging of blue around his lips. "Relax, okay? Breathe."

Sherlock tried to take deep breaths. His fingers stayed wrapped in John's shirt. He refused to let go.

A nurse appeared moments later. "Doctor Watson?"

Sherlock sniffled in the mask. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry." He closed his eyes as he breathed. "Tired."

The nurse moved to the opposite side of the bed and looked up, watching the monitors. "Deep breaths Mr. Holmes. Deep as you can." Sherlock compiled before coughing hard. She slid the kidney basin in front of him as it became clear his cough was productive. Sherlock groaned as he spat into the basin and then let John press the mask back over his face.

"Get Mark, right now get him I don't care what he's doing," John said swiftly to her, keeping his eyes on Sherlock as his gut twisted. He reached to the side and grabbed a stethoscope, pressing it to his ears and listening to Sherlock's chest as he breathed. "It's okay, Sherlock," he said with his eyes closed, concentrating on what he was hearing as he shifted the drum, "just keep breathing for me, it's okay."

The nurse left the room to track Mark down. Sherlock breathed for John, long and deep, as best he could.

Mark came in less than two minutes later, concern written across his face. "John, Sherlock? What's going on? Just on my way in to start looking at charts before rounds." He still had his coat on and smelled of outside, the first cool snaps starting.

John thrust the stethoscope out for Mark, pulling Sherlock gently to lay on his side, injury up and good-side down, seeing if he could ease Sherlock's breathing any. He gently rubbed Sherlock's back as he looked over to Ann and asked her to set up a nebulizer for them. "It's okay, Sherlock, just breathe, it's going to be okay."

Mark listened as they got Sherlock settled on his side. When he got the stethoscope low on Sherlock's back he swore, "I don't think we avoided it. At least the tube was out before it set in good. Likely his antibiotics from the initial infection helped keep it at bay. Ann, the neb and I need a lab kit. Swabs, blood draw, all of it. And get xray up here."

Ann worked in practiced movements around Mark, cracking the medicine into the other mask. It was short work to switch them out and press the fogging mask to Sherlock's face. She slipped out of the room to do the things Mark had ordered.

Sherlock breathed in the medicine as he watched them, voice almost unheard over the treatment. "Didn't avoid what?"

John crouched so that it was easier for Sherlock to look at him. "Sounds like you've pneumonia, we are getting films to look at your lungs. We can manage it, Sherlock, your job is just to breathe deep and slow, okay? Just breathe." 

He rubbed Sherlock's shoulder, allowing Mark to manage the doctoring as he put his focus to keeping Sherlock calm. Panic would do nothing but stress his lungs and make it harder to breathe. "It's going to be alright. Deep as you can with that medicine." 

Mark went to work as soon as Ann was back. "Jabbing you, Sherlock. Not waiting 'round for the lab to get here. Want a clean draw, so you're getting a jab. Sorry mate." 

Sherlock nodded as kept his eyes to John. "I'm tired. This nonsense is hard. I don't like it." He took deep breaths as he watched John. "Want you and Mary to be happy too. Want to blow up your kitchen with the baby. Mary chase us out with a broom or something else cliche."

John ran his fingers through Sherlock's hair, watching his color closely, his gut twisting in knots. "Don't worry about that right now, Sherlock. You'll...whatever happens with her, you will be around, okay? I'm not leaving. I know you're tired, you can sleep. Just close your eyes, let us take care of you, alright?" 

He was sure this was going to kill him as Sherlock's sats continued to fall, the monitor infuriatingly blipping at him as labs were drawn. "Mark," John said under his breath, fear getting the best of him. He could not handle another code, surely not. 

Mark shook his head. He reached up and turned the oxygen up. "Get some rest, Sherlock. Don't stress about anything right now. It's going to be okay." He looked to John and watched him for a minute. He'd only really understood John's side of the conversation but it didn't take much to infer what it was about. Sherlock was definitely the reason they were separated then. 

"Ann, I want antibiotics up here now. We're going to wipe this out."

Sherlock nodded as he closed his eyes again. "Love you, going to rest now."

John nodded, keeping his fingers moving through Sherlock's hair until Sherlock dropped off into sleep. John stood up, raking both his hands through his hair as he tried to catch his own breathing back, panic fluttering, trapped behind his ribs. He closed his eyes, slowly forcing himself to breathe slowly, his lashes clinging together as his throat burned. 

_Just an infection. He's fine. Just an infection and nothing more. He's okay. It's different._

_What if it's not? He's weak. He's incredibly weak right now. He can't fight it off._

_Shut up, John, he's fine. It's an infection. He'll pull out of it and be-_

John opened his eyes as the monitor screamed at them that Sherlock's breathing had dipped under the acceptable breaths per minute range. The sound obviously called Sherlock back up out of it long enough to make him inhale. "Christ, Mark we have to fix this," he managed, his voice wavering all over the place as John's hands started to tremble.

"Working on it, John. Sit down. He's going to be fine. Alright? Do you need something for your nerves? You look like you're about to shake out of your skin." Mark settled Sherlock on the bed and elevated his head. 

"Oh, come to join me for tea again?" Jim looked up from the paper he was reading.

Sherlock spun in a slow circle. "No. I'm getting _better_."

Jim chuckled as he set the paper aside and gestured to the seat. "Sit, drink. Poor little John is frightened. You're just asleep though, for now." Jim clicked his tongue. 

"Where's Molly? She's better at this than you." Sherlock snapped as he settled in the chair and sipped his tea. 

" _Her?_ I'm hurt Sherlock. You're the one who left me out to wander." Jim grinned as Sherlock glared at him.

John sat down and dropped his elbows to his knees, holding his head in his hands and letting his eyes fall closed as he tried to calm himself down. Sherlock's vitals were hovering at borderline, dipping low enough to kick the alarms off before sliding back up. John couldn't make himself watch, he was sure he was going to black out again as he sat there, oblivious to the tears that splashed to the floor between his feet. 

_Maybe he was too weak and you pushed him too hard. Maybe those were just stolen moments before he dies. There won't be another return after this, no more surprises, no more possibilities. When he dies, that's the end of it._

John groaned, his fingers tightening in his hair until he was tearing some of the silvered strands loose, so unsteady a gust of wind could pitch him sideways and shatter him against the floor.

Mark watched John closely before leaning in and whispering to Ann. She slipped out a moment later and Mark moved to John’s side. “I’m having medicine brought in. You’re going to take it. You- John, you’ve got to breathe and relax. Sherlock’s going to be okay.” 

Ann came back in with some pills in a small cup and a cup of ice water. "Right," Mark said. "Valium. I really would like you to take this and not argue, please?"

John nearly choked on his own tongue as he tried to speak, reluctantly reaching out and taking the pills in his hand, followed swiftly by the water. He downed them, loathing himself, eyes back to Sherlock. "He's satting so low," he said roughly, "god, do we need...he..." John couldn't manage to form a sentence, shaking his head as he covered his mouth with his hands, closing his eyes again. Jesus, he couldn't do this." 

"No, he's tired. If we do it again he's- he'll not come back off, not if he goes on like this. If things start getting worse we'll go with a bi-pap. He's okay, John. He's okay. This is fixable." Mark put a hand on John's shoulder. "I think I'm just going to go ahead and order the bi-pap. We'll give him a little help. Lots of people sleep with them every night. He's going to be fine."

Mark nodded to Ann who went to take care of the paperwork and get one up to them.

John nodded. He knew it was dangerous, whichever route they took. Putting Sherlock back down and intubating him _again_ could surely not be an option. He was going to have to contact Mycroft, let him know...

Mary was just...comfortable. This was her doing, she was the only person responsible, and she was comfortable at home, immune even from John's anguish, buffered with the convenient fact that she was pregnant. The injustice of it all tore a pained, panicked sound from his chest. 

"He can't- you've got to be sure he's-" he shook his head, tears falling heavy down his cheeks as he struggled. 

Mark crouched in front of John. "We will put him on the b-ipap while he sleeps. When he wakes up, we'll go to high oxygen in his nose. See if we can't get him talking, breathing, strengthening those lungs. You need to call someone to come up here for you. You can't do this all on your own, John. I- who can I call for you?"

John laughed, a manic, desperate sound as he shook his head. Who could Mark call? John shrugged, looking away. "I've been alone for two years, met a beautiful woman and married her, and now-" he clipped off before he said too much, closing his eyes again. "I don't have anyone. I had him. I had my wife. Now..." he scrubbed a hand over his eyes as his knee started bouncing, his hands freezing and breathing overly fast. 

"John, slow, deep breaths. Your wife- I- look, it's obvious Sherlock is you two's sticking point. But could she not be some measure of comfort right now? Sherlock's brother? The woman- Molly? John, breathe for me." Mark shook his head. If John tipped too far he'd have to have him removed and possibly hospitalized himself... and he really did not want to do that.

John viciously dragged his attention away from his problems and put it to breathing for as long as he could. He slowly inhaled, before exhaling once again. He managed to repeat the process several times, a slight sheen of sweat on his forehead, hands like ice. 

He shook his head, trying to puzzle out what to do. "Molly... Molly is working. My-Mycroft is working. My wife hates me. I- god Mark I'm sorry, I'll be fine I-" his voice faded out and he dashed a hand across his damp face. "I'm sorry."

"There is no reason to be sorry. John, lie back and rest. I have Sherlock. We're working on things. He's going to be just fine." Mark shook his head. This was all going bad, fast. Sherlock was okay, but John was falling apart.

Ann came back in with the bi-pap and a respiratory tech. The two of them got the bi-pap on Sherlock and going. Mark watched Sherlock's sat levels come back up over the next few minutes and nodded. He was obviously still down lower than he should be but Mark was satisfied.

John lay back as the medicine began to wrap around his mind, easing the tightness in his chest and settling his breathing. He dragged the blanket over himself, tugging it up over his mouth, holding it just below his nose as he watched Sherlock breathing with the aid of the loud machine. 

The valium had the intoxicating effect of tearing down his walls as well as smothering the panic, leaving him feeling like a small child, alone and afraid, quiet tears sliding down his face as he watched his best friend struggle at life. He was quiet, laying in his chair, wrapped up tight and breathing slow and deep. 

Mark stayed with John until Molly got there after he’d called. “I’m going to do my rounds. Call me if anything changes.” Molly settled in the chair beside John’s and wrapped a hand around his. “Called someone else in for my shift.”

Jim strolled along the hall. “Interesting place you have here. All- neat and organized. Not at all like your flat. Your flat is ghastly.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Do _shut up._ Why are you following me?”

Jim shrugged, “Seems like the thing to do, dearie.”

John said nothing for a long while as Molly held his hand, shame and exhaustion battling for his attention. He ignored them both, too strung out to feel much at all. "He's not doing well," John finally said, nearly forty minutes after Molly had arrived. Even with the bi-pap, Sherlock was satting too low, his color poor and his breathing labored. "Too much, it's… he's so tired."

Molly held his hand and watched Sherlock for another few minutes. "He's come so far. He's tired, but he's strong, John." She squeezed his hand. "He's going to be okay, John."

John just shook his head as his shoulders caught, his breathing clipped and ragged. "I don't know, Molly, I don't know. He's... Jesus, Molly, what am I going to do?" 

Mark was back within another hour, walking in quietly to check on Sherlock. He listened to his lungs and went over the last recorded vitals. "He's got a crazy white count, but we are flooding him with antibiotics. It's just the infection, John. We will have respiratory put him in the rounds, break up that mucous in there twice a day, likely start him on percussion and all that. Give him some time. Sleep is best."

Molly stayed with John, keeping awake as the men slept. Sherlock stayed down and asleep for six hours before he opened his eyes the first time. He groaned as he looked around the room. His head tilted when he saw Molly, considering her unexpected presence. Sherlock looked straight for John and started trying to get to him. If Molly was there…

John was out hard. He'd been given another round of medication after the nervous vomiting had set in, setting his head aching and his gut twisting. He was currently down hard, anti-nausea and migraine meds mixing with the Valium. He was facing Sherlock, breathing deep and slow, dried tracks of tears on his face and his mobile clutched tight in his hand despite his state of consciousness. 

Molly was on her feet, firm with Sherlock. "No," she said to him in soft tones. "You stay down. He needs the sleep. He's okay, he- Sherlock, he's exhausted. Okay? Just exhausted." Sherlock glared up at her but acquiesced after a moment. Sherlock thread his hand through the railing and wrapped around John's. He closed his eyes again and Molly settled back into her chair to watch them.

John moved when Sherlock took his hand, flexing his fingers in his sleep and muttering nonsensically. A few minutes later he was right back under, breathing slow and deep again.


	10. Chapter 10

Sherlock drifted back off until respiratory came in forty-five minutes later. The doctor was quiet and smiled to Molly, "Ms. Hooper, family?" Molly smiled, answering softly, "Good friend."

The doctor nodded and listened to Sherlock breathe. She hummed as Sherlock opened his eyes. "Mr. Holmes, hello. I'm Doctor Cho. Nice to meet you. I'm going to add some things to your regimen and see if we can't get that broken up and out of you."

With difficulty Sherlock drew his mask away from his face, speaking roughly as he watched the woman. "Married, six months maybe, pregnant but you haven't told anyone, and you have a cat, no, two."

Sherlock put the mask back on and Cho turned to Molly with an eyebrow raised, remarking "I didn't believe Walthers."

Molly couldn't help but grin as Sherlock carried on. "Congratulations by the way."

Cho turned back to Sherlock. "You're wrong. I've told my husband."

Sherlock clicked his tongue. "Always something," he grumbled from behind the mask

John managed to hold dead asleep, only coming awake when the respiratory monitors were turned on, blaring as though in life threatening warning while starting up.He snapped awake, all but falling out of his chair, stumbling as he grabbed railing with one hand, his other splayed in fear over Sherlock's chest before he'd hardly opened his eyes. "God no, Sher-" he trailed off as he caught sight of the female doctor. She sometimes floated over to Bart’s and had treated a few of John’s own patients, worked with Mary. He struggled for a moment to remember her name.

Color flared across his face at his overreaction as he looked to Sherlock's monitors, his own heart beating so hard he could feel it in his toes. "Oh...I ah...sorry, thought...," he trailed off, looking at Sherlock for a split second before his focus scattered away. Christ, they were going to make him leave if he didn't get it together. "You okay?"

Sherlock shifted as he watched John. “No. I am bored and I want to go home.” Sherlock’s annoyed drawl was obvious even behind the mask. He looked up to John as he reached up and touched John’s face, thumb stroking along his cheek.

Cho didn’t say a word, though her confusion was written across her face. She knew Mary as well and had seen wedding pictures. She cleared her throat. “Right, well I’m going to start having therapy come by tomorrow, try to break the infection up. We’ll get him back up and running.”

John cleared his throat, nodding as he looked Sherlock over. There wasn't much of a change. His color was about the same as when John had fallen asleep, and his breathing remained rough and audible. He was awake though, awake and speaking softly, so there was that.

John looked back to Sherlock. "How, ah, how are you feeling," he asked roughly as he dug the sleep out of his eyes, trying to wake himself up properly.

Sherlock pointed to his chest and then the mask. "Like I have pneumonia. It's irritating." His features pulled down in annoyance, obviously irritated with his continued struggles, and he clipped, "Just want to go home."

John nearly flinched, nodding and sitting back down so that he was eye-level with him. "Can you sleep? That will help. Or I can put on crap telly, if that will help take a bit of your mind off it." He rubbed the back of his neck, stiff and unsteady.

Sherlock reached out and fumbled for John's hand, shaking his head at John’s reaction. "Forgive me," Sherlock whispered apologetically, "I feel miserable.All I want is to go home with you."

Cho touched Molly's shoulder on the way out. "I'll be by to check on him tomorrow."

Molly nodded and watched as the woman left, following behind to gently close the door. She turned back slowly and watched Sherlock and John at a distance, feeling oddly intrusive there with the men.

John shook his head, taking Sherlock's hand. "No, it's fine. You understandably don't feel well, it's fine. I know you are sick and want to leave. Sleeping would really be the best thing for you, if you can manage it." He gently rubbed the back of Sherlock's hand, trying to settle him as he pushed his own unsettled mind down, maintaining for Sherlock's sake. He was awake, he'd come back up, and that had been John's primary fear.

It was with no small bit of shame that he realized Molly was _still_ in the room.

Molly spoke up softly then, unable to bear the scene, "I'm going to get some food for both of us." She quietly slipped out of the room to go get something proper for the two of them to eat, and to give the men some time together.

Sherlock turned weary eyes on John, sluggishly looking him over. He eventually squeezed John's hand, speaking softly. "I wish you were able to rest better. I know this has to be hard on you." He coughed suddenly, wincing with the pain of flexing his abdomen and shifting the infection in his raw chest, "God, I loathe this."

John shook his head and reached out, rubbing Sherlock's arm gently. "I'm fine. I don't know why they called Molly, I must have been sleeping… I'm- I’m fine. I wish there was more I could do to get you comfortable." He shifted closer, resting his forehead on the railing and studying Sherlock's face. "You're going to be okay. Just try to rest, I know this is miserable."

Sherlock kept his eyes to John and squeezed his hand. "There are so many things I want to say, all so foreign on my tongue, foreign to my mind, and yet as valid as my need for air." His mouth quirked under the mask. "I saw him again. He's needling me about you. Feels like I am going mad." Sherlock reached with his other hand and touched John's face. "Rest, for me?"

John listened to Sherlock speak, wanting more than anything to pull him out of that bed, shake him back to proper health, and drag him back to Baker Street. He replied to Sherlock without really thinking, dismissing his concerns as best he was able. "I've been sleeping. For a few," he looked over at the clock and blinked, utterly shocked that hours had gone by, "hours, I suppose. I'm okay. You are not going mad. Fever and illness does things to us. Just rest, breathe. I'm fine, don't put a thought to it. Not a good time to start," he quirked his lip and gave Sherlock a wink, squeezing his hand. "Go to sleep."

Sherlock muttered at him. He kept John's hand in his and closed his eyes. "Fine, but they're giving me tea when I wake. It counts as a clear liquid, damn it." Sherlock shifted as he tried to get comfortable in the bed. He huffed against the mask. His body stilled when he found a good spot. Soon his breathing slowed as he drifted off to sleep.

John stood up when Sherlock finally dropped off, arranging Sherlock's arms comfortably and then pulling the blanket up over him. He slightly elevated Sherlock's bed to ease his breathing. When he'd managed that, he stepped back, sliding his hands in his pockets and just breathing as he tried to get control of his mind. There was so much activity, he was having a hard time catching a single train of thought.

Molly was another half hour, coming back with Chinese takeaway. She slipped in and set the bag down. "John?" Her voice was quiet. "You doing okay?" She looked concerned as she stood there, hands nervously working at the containers, setting them out, needing something to do.

John nodded quickly, ashamed with himself, sensing how nervous he'd made her. "Yeah, Molly, yeah fine. I'm sorry I- you don't need to stay. Thank you for sitting with him last night, I sort of dropped the ball there. I'm sorry you got caught in that. I'm fine. Totally fine." He cleared his throat and made an effort to arrange his face in something close to a normal expression, smiling lightly at her.

Molly leveled a look at him and shook her head. "You aren't fine. I'm not fine. Nothing about this is fine. I want to help, to do something and I feel stupid and useless... It's horrible. And you've been in here with him and I've barely come by because I couldn't stand the thought of him not waking up. You- I don't know how you haven't completely cracked. I don't know how you lasted this long before you had a bit of a breakdown." Molly moved to him, wrapping her arms tightly around John and hugging him close.

John went very still, lightly patting her on the back, nodding softly. "I don't get to do that. Not when- not… my wife, you know? My _wife_." That's all he could say of it. He blinked a few times, looking up at the ceiling before correcting himself. The food was nauseating, though Molly had gone to the effort and he fully intended to eat. "Let's tuck in to that, yeah?"

Molly gently let him go. "It's not your fault though. Not- I won't say anything else but you can't... John. You just can't." She settled in with her food and closed her eyes for a moment before tucking into it. "If you need anything, from home or, anywhere... can I get you anything?"

John began to tuck into simple white rice, eyeing the rest with a rolling stomach. He shook his head, trying to think. "No, not really. Though- if- no, I'm, no." He shook his head, closing his eyes before forcing another bite. "Thank you for bringing food."

Molly shook her head, looking pointedly at him. "No, tell me, John. Anything." She picked at her food, not particularly hungry. Molly finally shoved it away. "This was a ridiculously stupid idea. Should've got us fruit or something." She sighed and ran her fingers through her hair. "You're welcome, but in all seriousness. Anything."

John hummed and leaned back, pushing the food away, glad that Molly had given up as well. He simply could not eat. "All of my ideas have gone about the same, don't worry. At least you brought us something. I do appreciate it, Molly, really."

He looked at her then, this woman who loved Sherlock and would never have that returned. This socially awkward thing with a sharp mind hidden behind a small set of mousy features, so caring in a world of cruelty. She was rough about the edges, versed in the horror of the world through her chosen field, without succumbing to it.

"Could you… please feel free to say no, really, but I'd...it would help if someone checked in on her."

Molly smiled in understanding. "I'll go by today. I ah- well I have some things for, well they're for all of you, for the baby. So..." She suddenly covered her mouth, "Oh, I'm not supposed to know! I wasn't supposed to say anything. You two haven't formally announced it- I" She cleared her throat. "I've spoken to Mycroft he- I." She shut up and chewed on her bottom lip, hands tucked inside her cardigan.

John shrugged, giving her a very faint smile to assure her. "It's fine, Molly, really. This is not how I imagined any of this happening, you knowing in advance is fitting, really. You...of all the people, I’m glad you know." He scrubbed a hand over his eyes and cleared his throat. "This isn't how- how I'd imagined..." he shook his head to make himself stop, waving a hand absently in the air in an effort to clear the thought away as pressure rose in his chest, threatening tears he had no interest in entertaining, "it's fine, I'm glad you know. I'm sorry to keep putting things on you, truly I am, it's a bit heavy doing this alone."

He looked at her, his hands shaking in his lap. "She went to her first appointment. Heart's strong… things looked good. So- yeah I..." god, how it _hurt_. "at least there is that."  
Molly chewed on her lip more as she listened, "Yeah, that's good. Really good. I'll check on her. You want me to stay a little longer or-?" She gave a shrug to him. "I don't want to leave you if you need someone, but I don't want to stay if you'd rather just be alone with him."

John gave her a tight smile, his best effort at looking normal and collected. "I'm fine. You do whatever you want, Molly, I'm okay. He's likely just going to sleep, if we are lucky. I'm fine. I'll let you know if there is a change. And really, if you'd rather not go see Mary, that's fine too. I just… yeah I just-" he shrugged, unable to meet her eye over the topic of Mary. "I don't know."

"I want to go see her, John. It's okay. I'll go see her." Molly pushed to her feet. She crossed the short distance and hugged him. "Call me if you need me, I mean it." She gathered her things and looked over to Sherlock for a minute, staring at him before looking back to John. Her eyes began to sting and she whispered softly to him, "See you later," slipping out before he could see her tearing up.

John excused himself long enough to rid the room of the Chinese food, lest the smell make him ill, and to handle his own bodily needs, finally deciding to take a razor to his face. Clean shaven felt better, but showed the weight he'd lost and the pallor of his own skin, making him regret the choice. He settled back down in his chair after going through his bag and picking up a book he'd been trying to read all month, eventually falling asleep with it on his chest.

Molly hummed as she made her way out of the hospital. She strolled toward the street, intending to catch a cab. When the man stepped toward her, her arm came up in a defensive block. He opened the door to the car as he spoke. "Ms. Hooper, please get in."

Molly eyed him and then leaned down to peer into the backseat. She rolled her eyes and settled into the back of the sedan. The door was shut firmly and she turned to the man, speaking with a hint of annoyance. "Well? What can I do for you? Suppose my interactions with him would lead to kidnapping sooner or later."

Mycroft’s expression pinched in distaste of the word, "This is hardly _kidnapping_ , Ms. Hooper, you are of course free to leave. We simply have the same destination in mind, and I am offering you transport." He hummed as he looked at her bag. "Bit early in the pregnancy for gifts. I was given to believe that was a bit of bad luck."

"I crochet. I've had lots of time on my hands worrying about your brother. Did your mother never warn you that your face would freeze that way with such expressions, Mycroft?" Molly Hooper was having none of a Holmes brother’s crap. "I don't want to know how you know where I'm going. I also don't want to know why you're going... No that I do want to know. Why are you going?"

Mycroft inhaled deeply and turned his focus to the window, his jaw set and expression hardening. "That woman has potentially destroyed my brother. She continues to torment John Watson, who is heavily distracted by her at the moment, which in turn affects my brother's ability to recover. I need to understand her mindset. My brother no longer believes her a threat, I’ve an idea why, but I’d very much like confirmation in person. You have a better ability with people than I do. I imagined a joint visit to be… mutually beneficial."

"Now you look here, Mycroft Holmes. I don't care what you _can_ get away with. Mary is _pregnant_. You don't get to go around terrorizing pregnant women. Even if they did shoot Sherlock... Anyhow, you better be on your best behavior or you'll get the same treatment Sherlock did when he was high in my lab." Molly cleared her throat. "She's not tormenting John."

Mycroft laughed as he looked back to Molly. "I do not for a second believe that Mrs. Watson is capable of being _terrorized_ , Molly. That is not my intent, I've made my promises to John and Sherlock respectively." He put his focus to Molly for a few minutes as they drove through London. "If not tormented, then how would you describe him? I've watched that man through many a hardship. I've never seen anything like this."

"You make it sound as if she is doing it on purpose. I don't think she is. He still loves her. If she didn't love him she'd just have run." Molly shrugged. "I'm not saying I forgive her for shooting Sherlock. That's-" She waved a hand. "She's not out to hurt John. I just don't believe she is."

Mycroft's eyes narrowed as he nodded to Molly. "And there's the rub. I cannot operate with her free without fully understanding her intentions. I knew she was a threat. I never imagined she'd pose one to my brother, who survived James Moriarty and any number of his minions, who endured torture and constant threat to his life, only to take one in the gut from a former wet-worker of mine. I need to know exactly what she intends, or I will remove her, pregnant or not. Being with child was no hindrance to her when she gunned down my brother, it shall be no hindrance to me."

His tone had dropped, all signs of friendly discussion drained out of him as he spoke of protecting Sherlock.

Molly stared at him. "Sherlock would never forgive you and John would likely be in jail for having killed you. Tell me. How does that protect Sherlock?"

Mycroft leaned back, waving a dismissive hand. "Don't be crass, Molly. I am simply speaking of jailing her until she has delivered, at which time the situation would be re-evaluated." He sniffed and looked away, "I am working in a very convoluted situation, Molly. I am making do with what I can. She only needs to explain herself to my satisfaction, and I will let her alone."

Molly let out a long suffering sigh. "Some days I rue the day Sherlock flounced into my lab. Fine. Okay." She rubbed her temples, lack of sleep wearing on her. "Thank you for the ride."

Mycroft remained silent the duration of the trip to John's home. Former home. Well, whatever it was going to be. When the driver brought the car to a stop, he got out, standing beside the door and waiting for Molly, who he followed up to the front door. "I have no intention of creating a hostile environment. I would request your help in this. My brother is suffering due to this woman, so do lend me your abilities, Molly."

Molly cut her eyes to Mycroft as she knocked. "I'm here to help, Mycroft." It was a matter of seconds before the patio light clicked on, and a moment more before a small silhouette appeared through the glass.

Mary answered the door and she smiled to Molly. Her eyes flitted to Mycroft. "Anyone care for a cup of tea?" She ushered the two of them inside, speaking over her shoulder as she led them down the modest hallway toward the kitchen. "Mycroft, pleasure..."

Molly shifted uncomfortably, sandwiched between them as they moved. "John wanted me to check on you, in person."

Mycroft walked into the flat, taking instant note of where Mary had effected John's living space. He'd kept his home as a rented room while living alone, far different than his messy sibling. There were no personal effects of John's, where Mary had pictures and trinkets likely to hold sentimental value. He gave her a smile that did not meet his eyes and followed Molly inside. "You look well, Mrs. Watson. Glowing, in fact."

Mary smiled as she moved to the kitchen. "Thank you Mycroft. Pregnancy doesn't always agree with me, but it will be worth it in the end."

Molly suddenly remembered the gifts in her bag as she sat down, a whispered ‘oh,’ under her breath as she pulled the bag into her lap and unzipped it. She pulled the crocheted blanket out of her bag along with a ducky onesie set, speaking softly as she held out the blanket "I did the blanket in rainbows just because."

Mary took them and smiled, warm and honest, to Molly, "Thank you. Please, both of you have a seat if you'd like."

Mycroft settled in next to Molly, watching Mary as she moved. She was beginning to show. He inhaled deeply and laced his fingers together on the table. "Seems you've collected the weight your husband has shed." Oh, how he could not help himself.

Molly sighed and put her head on the table. "You were meant to be nice, Mycroft," she mumbled, words muffled from her position. Mary turned back to him and leaned against the counter. "I'm impressed. You managed to sit down before slinging words. In that case, yes, gaining weight. You've managed to insult me and drag John into it in one blow. Nicely done."

Mycroft arranged his features into that of surprise. "Simply an observation. It is my understanding that a healthy, expectant woman should gain. It is only understandable that a man in John's position should be on the downswing." He held Mary's eye for a moment longer. "Though I have made a great number of promises to be… pleasant, so apologies to the offence. You've a _shocking_ number of people rising to your defense, John included, of course."

"All the better for my child then. Why are you really here, Mycroft? Not that I don't appreciate the company, though the last time we crossed paths I was left worried for the safety of my child."

Molly's head shot up at the unexpected words and their implications. "What?"

Mary's smile did not reach her eyes. "He made it quite clear I'd be dead, or at the very least locked away somewhere I'd never be heard from again, were it not for my being pregnant. Oddly enough the only person in the whole equation who has forgiven me is Sherlock himself."

Mary poured hot water over the mesh housing loose tea, and set the mugs in front of them to steep. She put milk and sugar on the center of the table. "It's no wonder I went into hiding until I had both John and Sherlock's assurance they would speak to you. I've seen the types of decisions you've made Mycroft. It wouldn't have surprised me to find myself at the wrong end of a barrel, pregnant or not."

Mycroft's only outward display of his anger was to pull his hands off the table, setting them to his lap where he could flex a single finger down on his knee with bruising force. "It would be foolish to gun down my brother in cold blood and not expect as much." He gave her a tight smile and set his lips together, his jaw jumping as he struggled to keep himself in check. It was rare that anyone work their way under his skin. This woman had settled over his nerves like quicksilver the moment she’d spilled Sherlock’s blood.

"Sherlock sees a likeness in you and is desperate to keep John Watson in his life in whatever capacity he is capable. In his mind, that means embracing you at any, and I do mean _any_ , cost. He cannot be trusted to make a sound judgement of your character. Do believe me when I say that I will manage that for him."

Molly stared at them both, "Stop it." Her hand came down on the table hard enough to slosh tea and milk. "Fucking _stop it_. How _dare_ the two of you do this." She glared between them. "Mycroft, I am so bloody _tired_ of you using all of us to manipulate and shove Sherlock into whatever it is you want. I came here to check on Mary for John. I came here as a favor. You had me escorted into a car and gave me no choice in the matter of you coming along with me, no matter what you may have said."

She pointed at Mary, "And you! You _shot Sherlock_."

Mary nodded with a small, sharp bob of her head. "I did. I did it to protect what I needed protected. And I did it where I was hopeful Sherlock would survive. I could have killed him easily. But I didn't. I didn't want to kill Sherlock. I _didn't_ , no matter what _he_ thinks." She nodded to Mycroft. "I'm not a threat to anyone now. I was cornered and I did what I had to do."

"And yet, to date, you've stopped my brother's heart _four bloody times!_ " Mycroft was on his feet, furious, color high on his cheeks as he pressed curled knuckles to the tabletop. "’ _Don't tell John_.' The first words my brother hears after coming back from the dead, ' _Don't tell John._ ' Truly the words of a loving wife. Yes, how _dare_ I question your motives and your intentions, which you _will_ lay out for me here and now in full or John Watson will find himself free of the difficult question as to what to do with you."

There was a sudden, splitting _snap_ as Molly’s open hand flew out, striking Mycroft hard across his face. Mary covered her mouth, wide-eyed in shock. Molly had moved in such a way that Mary hadn't noticed until it was too late.

"I told you. I bloody _told_ you I'd do that! How dare you. How _dare_ you threaten that child. I don't care what you tried to placate me with in the car. It's become obvious you don't care one whit about that child. But the rest of us do. Whatever Mary has done, it doesn't negate that child's life. The rest of us love Sherlock too, but this is over the line!" Molly nodded after a moment and sat back down, pale and drained.

Mary spoke, voice soft even as she ran a cloth under cold water, "My intention is to get out from under Magnussen's thumb, that's it. I was there to threaten him, to find out what he knew, when those two brilliant idiots broke in." She wrung the cloth out and passed it to Mycroft. "It will ease the sting. Magnussen needs to- He sent me a telegram to the wedding!" There were tears in her eyes and her hand was splayed instinctively over her stomach.

Mycroft stood there, blinking, utterly dumbstruck as a livid print rose up on his cheek. He took the cloth in a daze and slowly pressed it over the heated flesh, listening to Mary as he sank back down into his chair. For several, ear-ringing minutes he was silent. When he finally spoke, his voice was low, nearly a whisper.

"Sherlock would have helped you. He would have helped you, John would have helped you. Instead you've pulled the sky down on all of you."

He cleared his throat and set the cloth on the table, leaving a mark that would surely linger for hours. He decidedly did not care one moment for the pregnancy, outside of its effect on Sherlock. In that, at least, Molly was correct. "You've made it perfectly clear that you will bring harm to my brother without hesitation, without an ounce of regret, without a breath of pause if threatened. Explain to me why I should simply allow you to carry on free and unrestricted. Explain to me how you are no longer a threat."

Mary shook her head, sighing before speaking. "I didn't want John to know. It would have put him in great danger, not to mention break his already damaged heart" she explained quietly. "I had to keep John ignorant of my past for many reasons, but now- now he knows.” She wrapped her arms around herself, looking off into the distance, unfocused and sad as she shrugged. In the next moment she inhaled deeply and carried on, her voice sad and heavy, “There's nothing to hide any longer, and I’ve run out of ways to protect him. Now I can't even get to Magnussen."

Mycroft listened to her with a deepening scowl. It was clear that she’d used Sherlock to protect John, and while that was likely noble to some, all Mycroft cared about was Sherlock. To him, she’d seen a way to protect her ruse and used his brother as fodder. "So good of you to admit the value you place on my brother's life. Well then, while deeply sorry for John and his incredibly poor judgement of character, I suppose your point is valid."

Mycroft rose from the table, nodding to Molly. "As ever, my gratitude for your unfailing support of Sherlock, and your continuous efforts to aid John while he is in such sharp decline. I'll see myself out, a car will be waiting to take you home when you are ready."

He left without another word, face still bright from Molly's hand.

Mary shook her head and sank into a chair, trembling as she did. “I have to leave. I cannot stay here. He’s going to have me killed. I don’t care what he’s said to John or Sherlock. I have to leave.”

Molly’s voice was numb as she replied. “I had Mycroft’s help to get Sherlock out… I- he’ll know if you come to the flat. Have you got somewhere to go?”

Mary nodded. “Yeah, I was there until John assured me it was safe to come home. He was obviously mistaken.”

Molly stood and kissed Mary on the cheek. “I’m so angry with you. So angry. I don’t know when that will stop. But I care about you and don’t want you harmed. Please be safe. Let me know when you’re settled safe.”

Mary nodded, thanking Molly before Molly slipped out of the house, pointedly stalking past the car, not at all willing to be in one of Mycroft’s vehicles, even if it did mean a very long trek back.

A few minutes later Mycroft frowned at the message he received, informing him that Molly had bypassed the car. He sighed, pressing his fingers to his temple before calling her, eyes closed as he listened to the line ring.

"Are you going to threaten me too?" Molly snapped into the phone. "I dared smack the great and powerful ruler of the- well however big your bloody empire is..."

"Molly," Mycroft said quietly into the phone, pinching his eyes, "I've not threatened anyone. I was sincere in my gratitude. Am I to assume Mrs. Watson feels threatened?" He was exhausted, and it was beginning to reflect in his tone.

"Infinitely. So much so she's not staying at home. I don't know where she's going. I was up all night with Sherlock because John just- cracked. I had to take a day off or work and I don't mind. Mycroft, I don't. I love them so very much. I-" Molly's voice broke. "I'm sorry I slapped you but you can't say those sorts of things!"

Mycroft sighed, "Please, Molly, get in the car. My driver will take you wherever you want to go. I apologize for my outburst. I am… quite… worried for my brother's survival and did not… handle that very well. You've nothing to apologize for. Please, let my driver take you home. I assure you I've no intent to harm her and quite meant that her point, while loathsome, was valid."

Molly sighed and waited for the sedan to catch up. She did not wait for the driver to get out. She threw herself in and gave him her address. "I just- I want everything to- I don't know Mycroft. Two years. Two _years_ I had to watch John fall apart. Now I'm doing it again and this time I don't even have the comfort of knowing Sherlock's okay, well other than that last bit... You know what I mean."

"Yes, I do understand. These are all factors in my acute distrust of Mary. She knew how horrific it was for John, and yet, to simply spare herself John's anger, she risked taking Sherlock from him again. I find her dangerous. Or rather, I find her pathetic, and short sighted. However, I will not harm her. I'll leave you, as John's friend, to advise him. She does not seem the least bit troubled that John Watson is a breath away from his own destruction. I do not trust her."

Molly closed her eyes and shook her head. "You didn't see her when you left, Mycroft. She put on a very good front for you and collapsed into a chair shaking when you left. I shouldn't have left her. I should go back. She- Christ, Mycroft. Couldn't you see how exhausted she is?" Molly leaned her head on the glass.

"She looked well fed and in good health. When situated beside my brother or her husband, one would hardly know there was trouble at all. I'd like to encourage you not to waste your time on a psychopath, but your time is your own. I am going to contact her with an offer of security as she is so willing to play the victim. I'll not have Watson stressing over her safety and setting off my brother."

"She is _pregnant_. Of course she looks well fed, you idiot." Molly took in a sharp breath. "I'm sorry. I need sleep. Mycroft... O-okay, yeah do whatever you're going to do. Not that you need my permission. God knows no one but Sherlock listens to me anyhow."

Mycroft sighed and nodded, "Get some rest, Molly, I am not going to hurt Mary."

He hung up the phone and immediately dialed Mary, loathing all of this.

Mary stared at the phone on the bed as she packed a bag, carefully putting the blanket Molly had crocheted on the top. She sniffled and wiped at her face as she hit speaker. "Please, Mycroft. Please. Let me have my child in peace, at least." She took in a shuddering breath. "Don't take the baby from John, too."

"I've no intention of harming you, Mary. You've no need to leave. I will be posting security for you as well, unless you'd rather I not."

How it goaded to be kind to her. He kept his tone as gentle as he was capable, speaking softly, though not with the easy honesty which he'd addressed Molly with.

"I am deeply worried for Sherlock, incredibly troubled with John's condition, and my anger was understandably mistaken for threat. It was not."

Mary couldn't speak for a moment. "I can't do anything but prove to you I've no intention of further harming Sherlock. I'm sorry, Mycroft. I was desperate and in a corner with Magnussen at my back."

"Yes, that's one way to describe it. I find it odd you've not once asked after your husband. Even my brother would have sought information by now. I cannot decide what exactly you are, just yet. Time, I'm sure, will tell. You are safe from me, and I will do what I can to keep you safe for him. If this marriage is all an elaborate ruse for personal gain, I'd ask that you simply name a sum now and be done with it, spare John this suffering.”

"God damn it, Mycroft. _Of course_ I'm worried about John you big bloody arsehole! OF COURSE I AM! He's my husband. I _love_ him. I cannot trust you. I cannot trust you at all. I'm going into hiding and you can tell John yourself just why it is that I am. He's made it quite clear he does not want to hear from me. You have made it quite clear how much I am damaging him. I call the hospital three and four times a day asking after both of them."

Mycroft laughed quietly into the line. "Do you imagine I will not have you followed. Do not address me as though this is my doing. I refuse to accept blame for your actions. I am not a danger to you, do try and tone down the theatrics, I've enough of those in a hospital room."

He ground his teeth as he alerted Anthea to have several eyes on.

"Do you imagine I cannot slip your eyes Mycroft? My hiding, twice now, has everything to do with you. Not only do I live in fear of Magnussen, someone you have let continue on despite his obvious threat, now I have to live in fear of you." Her breath was hitching and overly fast. Mary sat down on the edge of the bed as her head swam. She'd not been able to keep anything down in two days.

Mycroft rolled his eyes and spun his finger towards Anthea to get his men moving. "If you choose to leave, I will inform John that you decided to leave despite assurances of security. You are being incredibly unreasonable. There is no plausible way to slip my eyes in your current condition. Stay home, rest, calm down. I've never made an actual threat to you, and here I am expressly offering security."

Mary shook her head and slid down to the floor, hand over her stomach. “Okay, Mycroft. You win. Whatever you want.” Her voice was quiet and she closed her eyes to try and ease her spinning head.

"Mary Watson, do not black out on me. I will never survive Molly’s wrath. I am not a threat to you. I will provide protection for you. Do I need to send a physician?"

"This isn't about you, Mycroft. I've not been eating the last couple of days, well I have... it's not-" Mary let out a tired sigh. "Not keeping anything down, water's been too much, possible pregnancy complication, one easily taken care of. I can call a cab. I'm fine." Her voice was stronger. "I'm fine Mycroft."

"I will send for a doctor, your doctor, in fact. It is not a problem. Consider it an act of good faith." He kept his tone steady and even for her, not wanting the damned woman flailing about in tears and panic again.

"I am fine, Mycroft. I just need to call in and see if I can get a prescription for Zofran or something similar. While it is an uncomfortable situation. I'm not in danger. My doctor does not do house calls. Afraid I've just got the NHS for my health care. Love it, but no house calls. At least, that one doesn't... Not that mine would right now." Mary kept her voice even and strong, just wanting to go to bed.

"Yours will. I'll have it delivered within the hour. You'd be utterly mad to believe he wants ill for you. He's hardly had dry eyes in the last month, for god's unfortunate sake. He'll likely be glad of _something_ useful to do, as his efforts with Sherlock continue to fail." He drew a deep breath to get himself back on track. "I will have medication sent. I assure you that your regular OBGYN _will_ make house calls, NHS and all."

"Okay, Mycroft. Thank you." Mary made her way into the bed and dragged her phone to the pillow beside her. Too much stress taking its toll. "Have a good evening."

\---

John was sleeping when his mobile buzzed.

_Mary is ill and requesting Zofran. I’ll have someone stop by for the script._

He dragged a hand over his face and read it several times, the slow tremor in his hands setting in as he looked up at his sleeping friend and then back to the phone. He damn well could not simply write a script and hope for the best. If she was that ill… He swore under his breath and called up her number, nerves fluttering as he rang her.

Mary answered on the third ring. “Call you back.” She gagged, “few minutes.” The line dropped again. Sherlock stirred in the bed, somewhere between waking and falling back asleep.

John stared at the phone before looking at Sherlock, a single, audible whimper of distress from his throat. Sherlock was satting low, Mary was clearly ill enough to need a doctor. He got to his feet, quietly pacing as he raked a hand through his hair. Molly wasn’t with her, if she had been she’d have taken the line. Mary was alone.

_Fuck._

He texted back to Mycroft.

_May need you to come here and sit with him._

He looked to Sherlock’s monitors and then to Sherlock’s face, playing out the mental act of walking away from the hospital. God, what if he coded? What if he _died?_ The sound slipped again and he stared at his mobile, physically jumping when it vibrated in reply.

_Of course, though she looked well to me._

Sherlock stirred awake at the second sound. His voice was rough with sleep, muffled behind the mask. “John?”

Mary texted John in the next minute. _Will call back in a moment. Washing up. Sorry._

John looked up at Sherlock and shook his head, “Nothing, Sherlock sorry, everything’s fine. Please sleep, I’m sorry.” His hands were shaking so badly it was difficult to reply to her.

_I’m_

He looked up, thumbs hovering over the keys, his heart racing as he considered what needed doing. The idea of his wife in such a state, alone, was intolerable. The idea of Sherlock’s shooter in such a state... He shook his head and pinched his eyes closed, utterly warring with himself. He exhaled and nodded. She’d been running, who knew what state she was in? If she was ill enough to ask for help from John…

_I’m coming to check on you._

Then to Mycroft, before he was sick himself,

_Please come now._

John swallowed down the bile in his throat, flexing his hand rapidly at his side as he tried to settle.

Sherlock fumbled with the mask, “Everything is not okay. You’re shaking. What’s going on?”

Mary rang back as Sherlock was speaking to him. She had her head on John’s pillow.

John answered as he moved to the side of Sherlock’s bed and gave him a stern look, pushing the mask back in place before moving his eyes to the monitors. John pressed a warm palm to the side of Sherlock’s head, fondly scrubbing his fingers over Sherlock’s scalp as he spoke.

“It’s late for this to start. I’m coming to check on you.”

Sherlock leaned into the touches as he listened, able to pick out Mary’s voice. “Given the amount of stress and lack of proper sleep, it’s not surprising. I just can’t keep anything down. Exhausted. I- John, I miss you. I’m sorry, I don’t-” Her voice cracked in exhaustion, hoarse from having nothing but bile to come up. “I’m sorry.”

John set his jaw as she spoke to him, saying nothing for a few seconds too long before he finally opened his mouth. “I’ll be there within the hour.”

He rang off, shoving the phone into his pocket and tipping his forehead down over Sherlock’s ear, gripping the rail with one hand, the other still in Sherlock’s hair. He drew in a few shallow, wavering breaths before whispering, “Mycroft is coming, I’m so sorry, I’ve got... I can’t just- she’s pregnant with my…” he trailed off, sick at his stomach at the idea of leaving.

Sherlock reached up and touched John’s hand in his hair. “I am okay. You should go, spend some time with her. She loves you, John. It’s fine. I’m going to be fine.”

John grit his teeth as the room swam. “I don’t want time with her, I don’t even know who she is,” his knuckles blanching on the railing even as he gently slid his fingers through Sherlock’s hair. He bit the inside of his cheek to keep himself steady, not wanting to upset Sherlock. “I’m going to be gone long enough to make sure she is okay, and then I am coming back. I’m coming back, okay? Few hours, if that. Mycroft will be here.”

Sherlock nodded and went quiet after murmuring, “Okay.” He closed his eyes as he leaned into John’s touches again. He didn’t have the strength to argue with him. His fingers picked at the blanket in his lap.

John stared at Sherlock, his heart twisting behind the ribs as he eased back. “I’m sorry,” he breathed, swallowing hard as he watched Sherlock’s fingers on the blanket. He drew in a slow breath, moving his focus to the monitor, waiting on Mycroft with ringing ears and a racing pulse.

It took Mycroft half an hour to arrive, leaving a car waiting for John, who’d gathered a medical kit to take home. He looked to the well dressed man in the doorway and then back to Sherlock, a grim expression on his face. “I’m sorry,” he whispered again, actively hating himself. He left before he broke, leaving the men behind him and managing to get in the car with dry eyes.

By the time they pulled up at his home he was deeply, uncomfortably numb. He crawled out of the car and walked in the cold night air up to his door, not bothering to knock, sliding the key in and walking inside. He made his way to their bedroom and stopped in the doorway, kit slung on his back, knocking lightly on the frame.

Mary had dozed off on their bed, atop the blankets. She startled hard at the sound and looked up in wide-eyed surprise, shock-white and terrified. It took a few seconds before she realized it was John standing there in the doorway, her fear slowly fading away as her heart raced. She sat up slowly. “Hey…” She frowned as she took in how much weight he’d lost and how pale his skin was. Staying with Sherlock was doing him no favors and it hurt to see him like that.

John stared at her for a moment, letting all that information wash over him. She’d been expecting an enemy at her door, and had been far more stressed than she’d led him to believe. Mycroft thought she looked well, but he was wildly mistaken. She had a drawn, unsettled quality to her that went beyond physical sickness. His voice was gentle as he spoke, trying to assure her. “There are guards posted. Mycroft’s men. Same who used to watch Baker Street, recognize the cars. You’re... yeah. He’s... keeping you safe.”

He moved into the room and set the bag down beside the bed, clicking on the side table light. “I’m going to look you over. How often are you vomiting?”

“I don’t know, five, six times a day. Haven’t kept water down in two. Before that I was doing better, still bad morning sickness, but this… It’s just been getting worse.” Mary looked up at him. “No spotting, nothing out of the ordinary, just sick.”

John leaned back and shot her an incredulous look. “Two days. Mary, Christ,” he shook his head and stepped away, digging in his bag. “I’m giving you fluids and zofran. I’m going to take labs back to the hospital as well.” His voice was deadpan, just trying to get through this with as little pain as possible.

“I was going to the doctor in the morning. Mycroft intervened after he called to assure me he wasn’t threatening me… after Molly slapped him clean into Sunday.” Mary closed her eyes. “I’m sorry.”

John cracked a smile as he began to prepare fluids for her. “Molly slapped Mycroft?” He hooked the bag over the side of the bed and then pulled on gloves, just to be sure not to bring anything along with him as he cleaned Mary’s arm.

“He was angry, rightfully so… She slapped him over threats to our child. She was quite put out with him.” Mary tilted her arm to make it easier for John to stick her. “Left a hell of a mark.”

John hadn’t noticed it when he’d seen Mycroft at the hospital, though he’d been quite distracted. He found a site and went through the motions of getting a line going, hooking her up to the fluids and then fishing out both a bottle of pills for her to take later and an injection to give right then. He slowly pushed it through the line and then took her pulse, watching her breathing and paying attention to the color of her skin.

“Molly has quite an arm,” he said lamely, watching the fluids going in. “Can you eat?”

Mary shrugged, “I’m starving, but I- yeah, with the medicine, hopefully so.” She pressed a hand over her stomach, thumb stroking the slight swell of pregnancy out of instinct.

John nodded and got up, pulling off his gloves and binning them on the way out. God but it hurt to be home. He plodded down to the kitchen and made a point not to look around much, eventually returning to Mary with a tray of milk, orange juice, salted crackers, chicken soup that had been labeled from the day before, and a bowl filled with fruit he’d just sliced himself. He set it to his side of the bed and moved away, taking up a chair not too far away.

Mary was slow as she picked at the food. Her stomach ached and she didn’t want to push too fast. “Thank you for coming.” She was making her way through the food in slow increments. She didn’t want John to leave. Her voice softened in an effort to soothe him, guilt weighing heavy on her. “He’s a good man. I’m sorry I almost took him from you,” and oh, if that wasn’t the understatement of the year. Her jaw worked before she carried on. “Mind he doesn’t let the baby around too many dangerous experiments, yeah?”

“You are assuming he survives,” John said gently, his voice ghosting. There was no anger there. He was too tired for anger, and the fear of that reality was destroying him, shredding him apart from the inside. He could feel it constantly trying to claw free of his chest, chewing at the edges of his heart. John’s focus was set to the side of the room, eyes tired and glassy, overly bright for the occasion.

“He will.” Mary set the tray aside, stomach twisting on her despite the medicine. She believed Sherlock would heal, _had_ to believe it for John’s sake. “You should sleep. I can take the sofa if you want me to. Stay for a bit?”

John turned his focus on her. “I hate it when you do that. Hate it. How can you sit there and say to me with such certainty that he will live? It’s been a month, he’s… I gave that man permission to die not ten days ago, he was that bad off, and now he’s back down with a frankly bloody serious pneumonia and his body is so exhausted he forgets to keep breathing on his own.” His voice never raised, his expression never changed from that dull, aching numbness. His breathing hitched though and he swiftly dashed a hand across his face.

“I keep sitting there, thinking about going through the process again. Picking a casket and buying the flowers, telling everyone that he’s-” he stopped talking, looking away as fast as he was able, losing a single tear before his hand dashed across his eyes again. He took in a deep breath and cleared his throat.

“You need rest. Those fluids are not done, and I’m not having you out of the bed.”

Mary watched him, her voice was gentle, “I say that because he’s _Sherlock_. Because it’s obvious that man loves you. He- You gave him permission to die? What happened? I mean, I knew- I call,” She took a breath and closed her eyes, letting that information settle. She’d had no idea it had come so close that John had... “I didn’t mean to take him from you. I meant to protect you.” She shook her head and looked back to John. “Are you going back to Baker Street when he goes home?”

John cleared his throat and looked away from her again, staring at a spot at the foot of the bed. “He...non-responsive for weeks and...nothing, not assisting the respirators, vitals coding all the time, he couldn’t maintain even on full support. There was a family meeting going on, they were going to terminate care, he was...I’d always regretted not telling him...he had been fighting, so damned hard. I didn’t know if he could hear me, but I wanted him to be okay, you know? I wanted him to know it was okay if he had to let go. So I said goodbye, properly this time, without him on a roof and…” his voice wavered and he realized with a start that he’d actually been speaking aloud, suddenly looking to her.

“If he lives,” he said gruffly, his throat tight and raw, “it will be weeks still before he goes home.”

Mary nodded, “He came back for you. He always comes back for you, and God help you he would have done even if it hadn’t been me. If he was in there shot by someone else, you’d still be there like this.” There was no anger in her voice. She smiled, “You love him every bit as much as he loves you.” She took in a breath and nodded in understanding. John loved Sherlock, potentially in the same way he loved her, and she loved him enough that it was okay. She would not leave him for that. For anything, really. John was her heart, as surely as he was Sherlock’s.

“He was _dead_ when I met you,” John breathed, anguished, his face pulling in an expression of pain, “I’m not gay and he was dead. You... god I’d been in such agony until I met you and I... weak, Mary I was bloody weak and I just accepted your story and let you in and-” he’d not even realized he’d got to his feet, pacing at the foot of the bed. He stopped and hung his head, staring at his feet. His breathing was erratic for a moment until he calmed himself down. A full minute later he looked back up at her, not meeting her eyes. “I’m sorry, that’s not why I’m here.”

“No, it’s alright. You weren’t weak. You’re the strongest man I know. Have it out if you need to. God knows I deserve it.” Mary looked down at the blanket that made her think of one of John’s jumpers. She wiped at her face when she realized she was crying.

John’s jaw ticked and he shook his head slightly, moving forward to take her drip out as the bag was done. “I’m not going to- you’re already upset. I’m fine. I’m sorry.” He was gentle as he handled her, pressing cotton and a plaster over the small bead of blood at her elbow before getting up and pitching the rest in the trash.

“I can’t stay here. You can’t possibly know how terribly that hurts me. I... god I made him give a speech at our wedding.” He closed his eyes and shook his head, washed pale, left hand shaking horribly. “You can take those every four hours or as needed. They dissolve. So. Let- let me know if it’s not enough.”

Mary wiped at her face, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you.” She watched him, “Thank you. I- John if you need to come home I can go somewhere else.”

John stared at her for a moment before his shoulders drooped and he looked at the floor. She was obviously distraught, more affected than he’d ever seen her. It occurred to him how long it had taken to realize that Sherlock was more emotive than he let on, that most of his behavior was a diversion from his feelings. Perhaps... Mary and Sherlock were so very similar... it was a massive possibility he’d just not learned to read her as he had learned Sherlock. He wavered for a moment, aching to soothe his wife, who was obviously doing her best in that moment to help him.

“I- I can sit with you for a while. You need to sleep. I don’t want to leave with you so upset.” He moved back to the chair and sat down slowly before looking over to the tray of food and shaking his head, wishing she’d been able to eat more and sad that she was feeling so ill. It took him a few minutes to clear everything away, returning with just a tall glass of water and the roll of salted crackers for her, setting them on the nightstand. He sank back into his chair and looked over at her, honestly wanting her to sleep.

“Sorry. I’m sorry.” Mary moved until she was comfortable on her side. She closed her eyes and tried to will herself to sleep. A few minutes later she reached out and drew John’s pillow to her. She curled up to it like she slept on John most of the time.

The sight of his wife openly pining for him utterly broke John apart. Grief rose up like a pressure cooker, an audible, hitching sob cracking free of him as he watched her. The loss was palpable, he could neither go to the comfort of his wife or the aid of Sherlock without hurting someone, caught in an agonizing game of tug-o-war between the pair of them. He pressed a shaking hand over his mouth and closed his eyes, forcing himself to breathe as his shoulders moved with the harsh catching of his ribs.

Mary sat up and looked at him. “John,” She breathed out his name and shook her head. “Oh, come here. Please, just for a moment. Let me help... just for a bit and then go back to him. Please?” She patted the bed beside her as she watched him, hoping he would allow her to do something useful. “Just a moment.”

John looked at her as tears slipped over the hand covering his mouth, having to allow a space behind his fingers for him to pull at the air, such was the force of this latest episode. He was dizzy with it, wanting desperately to go to her, loathing himself for his weakness. He closed his eyes again, scrubbing his hands over his face and taking a few deep, hitching breaths as he ruthlessly mastered himself. His voice was rough when he finally spoke. “I have to go.”

It was all he could do to get up out of that chair and push himself to the door, unsteady and nearly stumbling. He stopped at the frame, not bothering to collect the medical bag. “I love you, you know? I s-still... it’s s-so, I had no idea anything could feel like this.”

He shook his head and swallowed hard. “Please... l-let me know if you need help.”

Mary nodded, speaking though her voice cracked, “I love you too. If you need me to bring something. I- anything John. Anything.” She shook her head as her shoulders hitched. “I’m so sorry.” She dashed a hand across her face as she watched him. Her fingers curled tightly into his pillow, chin quivering as she fought to keep the sobs at bay until he was gone.

John nearly ran from the house. He got in the car, made the driver put up the divider, and fell apart in the back. His mouth watered as his stomach bucked on him, but he’d not had anything since the rice Molly had given him and his stomach was thankfully empty. He was a complete mess when he arrived at the hospital; hair tousled from pulling on the strands, face blotchy and swollen, nose red, eyes deeply underlined in exhausted patches of gray. He cleaned himself up as much as he could and checked his watch. Two hours he’d been gone.

He ignored the looks as he dashed back to Sherlock’s room, his heart in his throat. He nearly tripped over himself as he came through the double doors of ICU, quiet as he could force himself to be as he walked into Sherlock’s room.

Sherlock looked up from the tablet, shoulder relaxing as he saw John. He looked over at Mycroft and back to John. “Mycroft, go home. You’re exhausted. Get some sleep. John, the same only… if you can stand it, here. Please, the two of you appear to be running on fumes.”

Mycroft looked at John and stood, “Sit before you fall,” he whispered, his back to his brother, pointing to John’s chair. In a much louder voice, “I do hope you saw the security posted. She is as safe as I can make her at the moment. Sherlock and I have been... discussing things.”

John nodded absently and sank down into his chair, a place that felt horribly like home, where nowhere else did. How he hated it. “I... yeah... did see them,” he managed roughly, staring at some unremarkable point on the floor beside Mycroft’s shoe.

Sherlock reached through the railing and touched John’s shoulder, tired himself, yawning through his mask. “Rest.” He looked back up to Mycroft. “Thank you, for making sure she was cared for, I know you- I know it was difficult.” Sherlock’s words to Mycroft were French, soft and easy.

Mycroft nodded to his brother and looked over to John, arching a brow as he inhaled deeply through his nose. His brother was far too exhausted and physically compromised to be caregiver to anyone other than himself. His French was just a soft, just as easy as he replied. "I know you love him, brother, but do not hesitate to contact me if he continues to decline. We must focus on your health. I will find someone to help with him if necessary."

John did not look away from the space he'd been blindly staring at since he came back. He nodded to Sherlock and spoke softly, "Yeah...rest...I'm...yes, that...that's what I'm going to do. Rest."

Sherlock watched John and looked back up to Mycroft. His French was pained, "He needs help. He's so tired. I've worn him out." He pressed John back, watching as the man sank into the chair fully. "He needs help." He repeated in soft tones. "Real rest, in a real bed... but I cannot bring myself to tell him to leave." His voice cracked as he watched John.

Mycroft hummed and nodded, walking out of the room for a moment and speaking with the active physician. He hung back, lingering in the doorway as the no-nonsense woman began to speak.

"Doctor Watson, I'm afraid visiting hours have come to a close."

John shook his head, eyes closed, still in his chair as he murmured to her, "Check the chart, I've permissions to be here." He hardly paid her any attention.

"I'm sorry, doctor Watson but I'm going to have to ask you to leave. Hours begin again tomorrow at nine am."

John opened his eyes, catching sight of Mycroft in the doorway, his heart instantly plunging into his toes. In the next moment he looked to Sherlock, who was looking as tired and apologetic as possible, but making no move to stop them.

It was like a punch in the gut.

He hummed and cleared his throat, nodding as he slowly pushed himself out of the chair. "Ah, right. Yeah, al- alright. Okay." He hollowed one cheek as he crouched down, gathering his bag, fingers shaking as he pulled his mobile charger from the wall, no idea what he'd done to suddenly be asked to leave after a month undisturbed at Sherlock's side.

Mycroft watched John for a moment before looking to his brother, speaking softly in French to steady him, "He needs rest. I'll see to it that he finds a proper bed for the night. I will be back in a few minutes."

John stood up with his bag slung on his back, eyes to the floor and hand flexing and relaxing at his side. He categorically refused to make a spectacle of himself. He cleared his throat and rose his eyes as far as Sherlock's feet. "Okay...you've...got my mobile if you...right. I...r-rest well, Sherlock," he breathed before turning and moving out into the hall in long strides, feeling his entire world crumbling to ash despite his efforts, ignoring Mycroft as the man called after him.

Mycroft called down to his driver, letting him know that John was soon to be out of the building and to take him home before thanking the doctor and moving to his brother's side. "He will be fine. You need to sleep."

Sherlock broke, "Bring him back. You bring him back, Mycroft." His breathing hitched hard as he tried to get out of the bed, managing only to fling the covers half off himself. "I didn't- I didn't mean-" He sobbed, "Didn't mean tonight- I-" He was stuttered, panicked once John was gone. "He'll hate me. He'll hate me again." Sherlock was babbling half in English, half in French as he tried to detach the mask. "He can't- I can't. Mycroft!"

He shook his head, exhausted with the efforts, "I can't. I can't!" Sherlock's monitors pinged. "He has to come back, you have to let him back." Sherlock whimpered, breathing heavily against the mask, "Th-thought it was a good idea. He's hurt. I hurt him."

"Sherlock," Mycroft said gently, easing him back and putting the mask over his face, "he's going to find a bed and he's going to sleep. Then he will wake up rested and come back. You did the right thing, he is not going to hate you. Take deep, slow breaths for me, Sherlock. What he can't do is make it through another code. Please, brother, please slow down," Mycroft allowed the worry to reach his tone so that Sherlock would understand his position. He rest a palm on the side of Sherlock's head and kept the mask over his face, "breathe, Sherlock, slow down and breathe."

Sherlock whimpered as a nurse came in and swabbed his line. “Easy Mr. Holmes.” She looked to Mycroft. “Were prepared for this. Doctor was afraid this might happen.” She pushed the small amount of sedative into Sherlock’s line and watched as his breathing eased. Sherlock sniffled into the mask as his body relaxed. The nurse peered up at the monitors and nodded as his vitals moved back into normal ranges. “There we go. Just relax. It will be okay.” She nodded to Mycroft and slipped back out.

Sherlock looked up at him, eyes heavy with sleep. “Take care of him.” He dropped off almost as soon as the words were out of his mouth, sedative and exhaustion pulling him under.

\---

John pushed past the double doors of the hospital and immediately caught sight of Mycroft's men waiting for him. He shook his head, cutting a hard left and ignoring them. He walked hard and fast, breath fogging around his head as his heart raced and his knees threatened to give out on him. Why had Sherlock tossed him out? He'd only gone to Mary for a few hours, literally running back to the only refuge he had, there less than ten minutes before being shown the door.

His mind tumbled over the wreckage that was left between he and Mary and now, presumably, he and Sherlock. He'd not paid any attention to where he was going until suddenly faced with the familiar black paint and bronze knocker. He exhaled harshly, finally realizing the endless stream of tears that was working on freezing to his cheeks, dripping hard off his chin. He dragged a hand over his face and fumbled for his keys, hands shaking so hard he kept dropping them.

Deep in the flat, Mrs. Hudson's phone rang.

Mrs. Hudson answered in her kitchen. “Hello? Hold on a moment dearie.” Her radio was turned down as she pulled off her gloves and set them beside the sink.

Mycroft cleared his throat as he stepped out, watching his sleeping brother. "Mrs. Hudson. I'm afraid I may have, ah, not handled a situation as well as I could have. I believe you will find John struggling to get in the door at the moment. He is exhausted, and was asked to leave for his own sake. I believe that message did not quite get through. If I could ask your help, that would be very much appreciated."

"Oh, oh dear, let me go see to him then. I'll get him fed and put to bed. Thank you, Mycroft. Goodbye dear." Mrs. Hudson was the closest to rude as she ever came when she hung up on on him. She hurried out to the front door and opened it. "Oh John, come in here." She bundled him inside.

John startled when she opened the door, swiftly dashing his hands across his cheeks and taking a few swift, deep breaths to try and cover his distress. "I- it's late, I'm sorry. Just going to uh, kip on the sofa, didn't mean to disturb you," he said roughly, his breathing hitching horribly despite his efforts.

"You are getting into a proper bed and sleeping. When you wake up you're eating a proper meal." Mrs. Hudson huffed. "Can you eat something? They didn't send you out, John. Sent you to get some rest."

There was no way he was going to be able to properly sleep like this. He nearly broke at the thought of laying in a bed alone, while the only two people...

He cleared his throat and gave her his best attempt at a smile. "I'll go lie down. Thank you for letting me in, got a bit cold out there. I'll... I'm fine, Mrs. Hudson, I'm fine. Thank you."

Mrs. Hudson nodded. "Okay dear." She frowned as she looked at him, patting his cheek and bustling off to make him a tea tray whether he wanted it or not.

John stared at the stairs for a moment before slowly walking up. If nothing, he could have a shower. He took the stairs slowly, memories of the last time he'd had to do this without Sherlock shredding through his mind. He was a shaking mess by the time he actually made it to the sitting room, taking a moment to look around before his hearing snapped off and stars cracked along his vision.He couldn't do it, not again, not _again_. He'd not so much as got his foot over the threshold before he turned and took off, all but running back down the stairs and out of the flat, black door still swinging on its hinges, panic clawing at his chest as his legs and lungs burned, nearly taking him down.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> All of your wonderful comments are so motivating to keep posting quickly. We are editing what's written and moving as quick as we can. Bit of flu and random ailments this week have slowed us down, your comments are wonderful gifts through the day. Thank you all for sticking with us as we try and work more into Mary's psyche and the whole of it.


	11. Chapter 11

John ran until he very suddenly could not, no awareness to his direction or destination. It took him another hour to find a bloody cab that would stop for him, asking the driver to take him to the nearest hotel. He paid cash for a room in a place too nice for him and too dull for Sherlock, paying no mind to the interior of the small room as he staggered to the bed and dropped down with his bag still on his shoulder, utterly breaking in the privacy, screaming his grief into the mattress. 

Mrs. Hudson found the door open and frowned, her hands fluttering nervously as she shut it and moved upstairs, calling John’s name. “John! John, where have you got to? I’ve your tea, dear! John!” She moved around the flat in distress, whispering under her breath as she wrung her hands. When she’d looked everywhere, she pressed a hand over her heart and moved back down to her flat in a hurry, distraught, rushing back to her kitchen before grabbing the phone off the wall and dialing swiftly. "Oh do pick up, Mycroft!" She fussed as she held her fingers to her lips.

Mycroft frowned and answered his phone, getting out of his chair and stepping into the hall once again, "Mrs. Hudson? Is everything alright?" 

"Oh, Mycroft, my John has run off on me. Poor dear looked ready to fall over and I sent him up to get in bed while I made him a cuppa. I was only gone a moment, only a moment, and he was gone! Left my front door open and everything. Oh, Mycroft, the poor dear is exhausted." She looked about her kitchen in worry, as though she had perhaps just misplaced him. .

Mycroft pressed his fingers to the bridge of his nose and nodded, "Alright, Mrs. Hudson, do try not to worry yourself overly much. I'll send someone after him." 

He cleared his throat and rang off, sighing as he looked to Sherlock and then to his mobile, deliberating. He decided, in the end, to simply send John a text. 

_Everyone is worried. I will give you your space, but contact would be appreciated._

Mycroft moved back over to his chair and settled in next to Sherlock, pressing his fingertips together as he put his mind to the incredibly complicated issue. 

\---

Jim chuckled as he stared at Sherlock over chessboard between them. They’d moved to the more comfortable upper levels, now occupying the dark wood and heavily draped library, each in a comfortable armchair opposite the other. "Afraid I'll have to decline the Queen's Gambit though," He pushed his pawn to c6. "Bit boring really, expected you might open with something flamboyant."

Sherlock sipped his tea as he contemplated the board, "Slav defense? Now who's being boring?"

Jim shrugged, "Well, if we're going to go with sound and boring I might as well go all out."

The two of them fell silent as the chess game continued, little sound outside of the shift of quality fabric on leather and the click of moved game pieces. Sherlock finally spoke, "Mycroft sent John away." 

Jim hummed in assent. "Yes, but it was for his own good. Have you seen how he looks? Dreadful really. You're killing him all over again. Pity that. I think he might actually be considering leaving his wife for you. Wouldn't that be a lark?"

Sherlock glared across the table at Jim. "Check."

\---

Mycroft watched Sherlock through the night. Slowly, in the very small hours, he rested his cheek against his palm and managed to doze off. He was startled awake by the wheeling cart the nurses used in their morning rounds, making him jump and look immediately to Sherlock.

The small nurse looked at Mycroft apologetically as she set to checking over Sherlock’s lines and taking his morning vitals. Before she was done, the on-duty physician came in with his team, ignoring Mycroft until they’d finished their exam. Sherlock’s condition was officially downgraded from ‘Critical’ to ‘Serious,’ and Mycroft decided he’d take whatever positive news he was given. It was damned well _something_ at the least.

Sherlock snapped awake with a sharp inhalation, his eyes searching for John as soon as they were open. His focus settled on Mycroft, who was occupying John’s chair. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. "Where is he? I need water. Damn it, when are these imbeciles going to let me eat for myself?" He growled at the tube in his nose. "You had me drugged last night."

Mycroft moved as the doctors filed out, pouring Sherlock a cup of water and handing it over carefully. "You needed to sleep, though do feel free to toss whatever abuse you'd like my way. He is resting, I would imagine, just as we'd wanted him to do. How are you feeling?" 

Sherlock moved the mask enough to sip at the water. His tone was grudging, "Better for the uninterrupted sleep. You know he's safe? Resting? God, he's going to hate me." He scrubbed a hand through his curls. 

"John is, I am entirely convinced, incapable of hating you, Sherlock Holmes," he responded, thumbing through his mobile, frowning as agent after goddamned field agent checked in with a string of 'Negative's and set his blood boiling. How the hell John sodding Watson had gone missing half-cocked and hardly able to stand was beyond him. He grit his teeth and finally sent Mary a text. 

_Is John with you?_

Mary's reply was swift.

_No. He's not at hospital with Sherlock?_

Sherlock watched Mycroft and narrowed his eyes. "Oh god. You lost him didn't you?" He closed his eyes. "He slipped them, whoever you had on him. He slipped them. Give me your phone. Please."

Mycroft sighed and handed the damned thing over, angling his chin up. "He did not slip me. He was to Baker Street, inside, in the care of Mrs. Hudson. There was no further need to watch him, or so I thought."

Sherlock's fingers were not as fast as they normally were, but he handled the phone with ease as he texted Mary first. _No, I messed up and sent him away, trying to get him to rest in a proper bed. SH_

Sherlock's next text went to John. _I didn't send you away forever. I was exhausted and worried. John, please. I love you. I just wanted you to get some proper sleep. Let me know you're safe. Sherlock_

He stared down at the phone, willing it to ring, or to chime, or anything of the sort. He looked up at Mycroft. "I'm sorry. I-" He shook his head.

John's reply was right on the heels of Sherlock's text, hardly ten seconds later. 

_Can I come back?_

Sherlock nearly sobbed in relief as he texted back, fingers shaking.

_God, yes._

He texted Mary before she could reply. _Found him, on his way back to hospital. Are you well this morning? SH_

Mary replied soon after. _Better, thank you. Thank you for trying to take care of John. How are you?_

Sherlock smiled as he wrote back. _Good, actually. Better. Hungry, still no food. Giving his majesty the phone back, talk soon. SH_ He handed the phone back to Mycroft. "Found him."

It was another hour before John finally arrived at Sherlock's door, exhausted and empty handed. He cleared his throat and knocked lightly, waiting to be allowed in. 

Mycroft swept his eyes over the man and swore under his breath. While Sherlock had slept, John had clearly not. John’s eyes were under brushed in dark swaths of bluish-grey, bloodshot and red rimmed. He looked as though he’d spent the whole of the night in acute distress. He was, at the least, showered and freshly clothed. Mycroft got to his feet, "I've a call, I'll just leave you two to your own for a bit." 

He walked out of the room, stopping to touch John's shoulder before finding his way down the hall. John looked up at Sherlock, not meeting his eye. "Can I sit with you for a while?" 

Sherlock patted the bed beside him, voice soft. "I'd much rather you come lie down with me.I- I failed to make myself clear when I spoke with my brother, and Mycroft took something I said and ran with it. I- John I- I tried to get out of bed to come after you. I’d not... God the expression on your face. They sedated me before I could do anything I- John I’m so very sorry, please-" He was rambling as he tried to explain. “please do not be angry... come lie down with me."

John moved stiffly, coming to stand beside Sherlock, looking up at his monitors before deciding he was entirely too exhausted to make sense of anything at all. "I...I can just settle in my- the chair, it's- I don't want to give them reason... not for a few hours. I just- I just want to sleep for a few hours if that's okay. I-" he cleared his throat, his voice hoarse and tight. "I'm sorry, I don't know what's wrong with me. I don't want to keep you from resting."

Sherlock flexed his hand and sighed, reaching for John again. "For God's sake, please lie down with me. It- they're not going to kick you out. I promise. Please. This wasn't about me. It was about trying to get you some sleep in a proper bed. So come up here in this bed and go to sleep, please. I- I'd like a nap too." Sherlock watched John,pleading with his expression. 

John nearly flinched away from him. He swallowed and reached out, sliding his fingers gently through Sherlock's hair. "I'm sorry I left yesterday before. I just... had to take care of her too and..." _ruining everything, John._ He pulled his hand back as his mind taunted him, viciously whispering all of his fears to him. He'd started hearing things somewhere after midnight, too little sleep and too much stress taking its toll. He’d spent long hours pacing, jumping at every noise from the other hotel guests, paranoid and horribly tired.

"I'll sit here with you. You can nap, it...I didn't mean to upset you. I'll stay here and you can rest. I tried to be swift, she wanted me to stay but I-" he looked away, his hands trembling hard, hating himself for all of this, "just...wanted to be here."

Sherlock stared at him, deeply worried. He was more gentle in his tone than he typically could make himself. "John, I am sorry. I did not intend to have you out last night. You’ve worn yourself dangerously thin, and my thinking was to have you in a proper bed where you did not need concern yourself with me. In my exhaustion, I did not make myself clear, Mycroft, well-intentioned as he was, ran with it and it was wrong. I love you. Please. You needed to take care of her. I understand. I love you. Everything is fine as far as I am concerned. I'm simply worried about you." He leaned into the touches, eyes closing. "Sit and rest with me, please."

John nodded and eased down into the chair that had become so familiar, that he’d ached for last night,, closing his eyes gratefully "You have nothing to be sorry for," John whispered, shifting to his side as sleep reached up and started to pull him down, "I'll go in a few hours, just...just want some sleep." 

He was out cold in the next moment, not even reclined, still in his shoes and jacket. He was facing Sherlock, one of his hands on the bed near Sherlock's, the tight lines of stress slowly easing as he sank into sleep. 

Mycroft was back in not fifteen minutes later, texting as he walked, a scowl on his face until he reached the foot of Sherlock's bed, looking up at him. "Can you manage a few hours without me?"

Sherlock had his focus to John, his mind racing as he stared at the man. "H-He's talking about leaving again." Sherlock had his hand in John's. He looked up to Mycroft. "I don't want him to leave. He passed out in the chair. I'm tired, what if I go to sleep and he leaves while I'm sleeping?" 

It took a moment for Sherlock’s mind to catch up with Mycroft’s behavior and he tilted his head, "Why were you scowling?" 

Mycroft looked over to John and then back to Sherlock. "He's not going to leave unless made to leave. You've nothing to worry about. However, if it will keep you from sleeping, I'm going to take him back to... wherever it was that he stayed last night. You must rest." 

He slid his mobile back into his pocket. "Just business, brother, business that needs my attention. Are you alright for a few hours? Will you rest?"

Sherlock waved his free hand. "Go, save the world. Don't start a war, you'll never get to the office on time." He paused and looked at John before looking back to Mycroft. "Thank you."

Mycroft hummed and looked at Sherlock once more. "I do mean it, Sherlock. Please rest. I cannot imagine John leaving of his own volition."

Mycroft held back for another minute before finally turning and leaving, asking the staff to keep a sharp eye. On his way out, he dialed Molly Hooper once again. 

Molly answered her phone with a hum, "Mycroft. How's the face?" She was being cheeky, well rested and much more her normal self. She balanced a bowl with a brain in it as she leaned into the phone.

"Delighted to hear your spirits are restored,” Mycroft said with his typical mechanical smile, “I've two men in desperate need of them. Might I offer to compensate you for a day away from the morgue, put in a transfer to ICU? We've had... well, let's call it an adventurous evening." Mycroft got into his car and nodded for the driver to just go, heavy matters at hand and he needed this resolved. 

"Oh dear. Of course. Send food. I'm starving. Thai would do nicely. That's all I ask for. Hands full of brains at the moment but I'll be there as soon as I can sew Mr. Thompson here back up. An hour too long?" Molly's voice softened as she spoke to him and started putting things back together.

"I'll have food sent, though you're likely to make them ill if you eat in the room. John looked nothing short of green and Sherlock is hellbent on eating despite doctor's orders. It's been a bad night, I appreciate your help. We lost John for a while there." 

He cleared his throat, tapping on the tablet in his lap as they moved. 

"Oh god, never mind about the food then. I'll grab a sandwich on the way.I'll get there as soon as I can, Mycroft. Sorry about yesterday. I've got them. Don't worry." Molly was working faster as she spoke, still careful, just moving with increased haste.

"I may be several hours. I'd appreciate it if we kept sharp eyes on John. Flight risk now, though I'm not sure how great. I'm reachable by phone any time. Thank you, Molly." 

He rang off, setting in on calls as his kingdom was prodded, the damned man getting in too close, toying with them now that the proverbial hornet's nest had been poked. 

Molly appeared in the doorway to Sherlock's room an hour later, having eaten on her way there. She took a moment to look the men over. John had clearly passed out without intending to, still dressed as though he’d just walked in, slumped uncomfortably in the recliner. She made her way over to him and quietly eased him back, one hand on the headrest of the thing, the other on the foot. She grit her teeth and closed her eyes, working as slowly as possible to avoid waking him. When she finally had him all the way back, she fanned out a folded blanket and tucked it around him, frowning now that she had such a close, unguarded look at John. He was too thin and too pale. 

She took a step back when she was done tending to him, looking over to Sherlock. The man had turned himself on his side and was facing John, one hand through the railing of his bed, holding tight to John’s wrist even in his sleep. When she was satisfied that they were as settled as she could get them, Molly retreated to the back of the room with a book, curling up comfortably where she could see the both of them without being intrusive.

John did not move at all, sleeping incredibly hard, no dreams, nothing at to give away that he was living aside from his deep, slow respirations. His hand was totally lax on the bed where Sherlock held his wrist, no mind at all to anything as his body demanded that he rest. 

Molly read her book until Sherlock stirred a few hours later. He watched her for a moment and tilted his head in question. "Three hours since I got here,” Molly whispered, nodding over at John. “I let the chair out, go back to sleep, it's best for your body. Nothing's changed, he hasn't stirred." Sherlock nodded to her. He gazed at John for a minute before his eyes grew too heavy and he drifted back to sleep. It was a few hours longer until someone dropped a metal dish out in the hall.

John nearly toppled out of his chair as he snapped awake, gasping as he drew in a sharp breath and dropped the foot of the recliner down suddenly. He immediately dropped his elbows to his knees, holding his head in his hands as his shoulders heaved with the force of his frantic breathing, trying to still himself in the aftermath, fingertips pressed hard to his scalp just over his temples. 

Molly startled and dropped her book. "John? Are you okay?"

Sherlock's eyes shot open, heart rate speeding up as John's hand was yanked from his. He blinked, voice was hoarse. "John?" He coughed and shook his head, trying again. "What’s wrong?"

John nodded without speaking, still struggling to get himself together. It was another two minutes before he finally spoke, his voice sleep rough and weary. "Dream, I'm fine, just a dream."

Despite knowing that none of the carnage he saw was real, he looked to Molly with bloodshot eyes, "Text her?"

He looked over to Sherlock then, "Yeah I… sorry I..." he looked over to Sherlock, "You okay? I'm sorry to wake you, I didn't mean to. Just dreaming. Need… need anything?" He could still hardly meet Sherlock's eye, ashamed and still off from being tossed out the night before. His head ached and he had that lingering hangover of _not okay_ that always stuck after dreams where he watched everyone die in the sand. She’d stared up at him, dead-eyed and still, from the flat of her back, dust granulates of dirt and sand swirling around her, disturbing her scarf, blood streaking across her face. A baby cried in the distance as Sherlock’s voice had whispered to him, _because_ you _chose her, John._

Sherlock cleared his throat, voice soft. "I'm fine. It's okay. I, yeah, I do need something, actually. Would you- will you sit up here with me. My hair? When you- it's comforting." He had a hard time asking for physical touches. "Just want you here with me." John looked nothing short of haunted, and he himself was quite unnerved. 

John looked down at his lap, twisting his hands there for a moment. He cleared his throat and nodded, glancing at Molly before standing up and carefully toeing off his shoes. He crawled up beside Sherlock awkwardly, a visible tremor to his fingertips. He reached out without otherwise much touching him, sinking his fingers down to Sherlock's scalp.

Molly slipped from the room then, a bit of a blush to her cheeks. While it was frankly about time these two emotionally stunted men were honest with each other, it was awkward to see such stoic men cut down so raw and base. It felt nothing short of voyeuristic to see them handle the other so gently. She took up a chair in the hall, cracking her book back open and trying to keep her mind off of it. 

Sherlock sighed and leaned into the touch. "John,” he whispered after a moment, all raw honesty in his tone, “please forgive me. Last night was handled poorly, you should have never been sent away." He looked at him. "You- please." Sherlock reached out and wrapped his hand around John's side. "Please, forgive me."

John shook his head and spoke softly to him. "I'm not upset with you, Sherlock...honestly I'm not..." He reached down with his free hand and closed his eyes, still sliding his fingers through Sherlock's hair. He swallowed and focused on his breathing. What had occurred last night served as a harsh, violent reminder that everything John held dear, every source of comfort he allowed himself, could at any moment be torn from him. Mycroft and the hospital staff could decide John was terrible for Sherlock, and that would be the end of it. He’d be sent away, nowhere to go, and he wasn’t entirely sure at this point that he’d survive it. He’d _ached_ for his Browning last night, which in and of itself was crushing. He’d thought himself past such dangerous mental ideations, and now that he had a child on the way? He loathed himself for his cowardice.

Sherlock took in a breath and nodded. "I'm still sorry." He leaned further into John and took slow, deep breaths. "Talk to me. Tell me what's going on in that head of yours John Watson. You've been dealing with so much. Please, let me help."

John hummed and bit at the side of his cheek. There was a phenomenal amount of noise in his head at the moment.

"It's nothing, Sherlock. Just... goldfish stuff... I'm okay. I am."

Sherlock opened his mouth to protest before thinking better of it and closing his mouth once again. It took him another few minutes to put things into words. "John, I want to help you, in any way that I can. If that means shutting up and not speaking, if it means listening, whatever that means. I- bloody morphine!" His jaw worked and he shook his head, frustrated with the fog that kept him from properly articulating himself. "I love you and I know that's not been easy to hear. I know that I have thrown that at you at the worst possible time... so whatever I can do to help, please tell me."

John listened to Sherlock, frowning as Sherlock’s breathing wheezed and squeaked while Sherlock worked his lungs. John reached out, grabbing the stethoscope and tucking it in his ears, physically manipulating Sherlock where he wanted him.

"You need another treatment, has Respiratory been in to see you yet?" He wrapped the scope around his neck and began to roughly tap over Sherlock's right lower lobe at his back, trying to see how hard it was going to be to shift the excess phlegm. "Take a few deep breaths if you can."

Sherlock shook his head, "Haven't seen them." He groaned as John tapped on him but then breathed deep several times. The last inhalation caught and he was suddenly gripped by violent spasms of his lungs as they tried to dislodge the thick mucous caught deep within them, tossing him into wracking coughs that doubled him over and burned horrifically across his chest. His throat burned as a thick, granulated collection of it tore loose and he wrenched the mask to the side, spitting into the dish that John handed him. He gasped and panted as he dragged a tissue across his lips, eyes watering from the pain. "Really, bloody, tired... of being sick." 

John slid out of the bed and pressed the call button, starting to set up a treatment. "I know you are, I know. Let's get you some morphine and see if we can't shift this?"

Sherlock closed his eyes and nodded.

A nurse came in shortly after, responding to the call, "May I help you Doctor Watson?" Molly hovered in the doorway before following her inside. 

Sherlock whined to John, "I hate coughing and bringing it up. It’s very painful."

John touched Sherlock’s arm as he spoke to the nurse. "Let's up his morphine and please tell RT to prioritize him, I'm giving him a treatment now. Right lower is almost non-existent," he explained, worried over the lack of breath sounds in Sherlock’s right lower lung. Lack of breath sounds meant he was not exchanging air there, due to the heavy mucous and infection that had pooled there. A breathing treatment and percussion would help dislodge it, though, very much like milking puss from an infected wound, it could be very painful. He took away Sherlock’s normal oxygen mask and replaced it with the breathing treatment, which would push humidified particles of medication down into the bronchioles, opening up the airways and making it easier to cough the phlegm up out of the lungs. 

"Molly, come hold his hands?" He waited for the nurse to push the morphine before walking around to Sherlock's back. He warned Molly that Sherlock was likely to have a productive cough, starting in percussing Sherlock's back with swift, cupped hands, pounding him like a drum to break the thick phlegm from the walls of his lungs.

Molly smiled to Sherlock, trying to reassure him as John worked on his back. For a short time the only sound in the room was the hiss of the nebulizer and the rhythmic percussive thumping of John’s hands over Sherlock’s back. Sherlock whined in frightened anticipation of the pain and shook his head as he breathed in the mist. Within a few minutes, Sherlock’s eyes were watering as he doubled over, bracing his hands on his knees in an effort to better get at the air, coughing violently as the mucous and infection began to break free. He reached up and yanked off his mask, mouth watering as he choked and sputtered while his lungs brought the disgusting infection up.

Molly held the basin for him as he was wracked with rough, productive coughing. He spat when he could, groaning and gasping for air as his chest spasmed, throat burning with the thick secretions, raw and burning. Molly watched him sympathetically, her fingers trailing through his curls when he was still, trying to reassure him. "We're here, Sherlock."

John gave Sherlock a moment to catch his breath, listening to Sherlock's lungs as he coughed, encouraged with what they were moving. Very slight breath sounds were returning to the area. He set in again, thumping with clinical precision at the base of Sherlock's lungs, letting Molly do the encouraging as he put his focus to breaking up the worst of it. This could kill Sherlock if they were not careful, and while he hated causing Sherlock pain, it had to be done.

Sherlock almost cried when Molly put the mask back on and John started again. He whimpered pitifully, looking up at Molly in desperation as she stroked his hair and spoke in soothing tones to him. "It's alright, Sherlock. It's okay."

A minute later Sherlock was hacking again, tears rolling down his cheeks as he wrestled with his body, shaking the entire bed with the force of his coughing. He nearly crushed the mask in his hand as he spat more of the infection into the dish. "C-can't, John, _please_. I- I can't."

John had stopped as soon as Sherlock began to cough hard again, nearly choking himself as he worked the mucous up out of his lungs. John was running the flat of his palm in soothing circles on Sherlock's back, his other hand holding a pillow over the gunshot wound that had superficially healed, but still caused John concern with Sherlock so forcefully working his abdominal muscles.

"We're done, we're done," he assured, pointing to a cloth when Molly looked up at him. "Wet that for him, will you?" 

He began to slide his fingers through Sherlock's hair, "I know that hurts, I know it does. Slow breaths now, Sherlock, nice and slow, it will settle. It's alright."

Sherlock breathed slow, trying to catch his breath back in a proper rhythm. His head leaned into John's hand as his lungs burned. Molly returned a moment later with the cloth damp. Sherlock wiped his face and sagged back on the bed. "John." He whimpered and sought out John's other hand as he closed his eyes, utterly worn out.

John stood at the side of Sherlock's bed, letting Sherlock hold his hand as he listened to Sherlock's lungs, frowning at the state of them, still so heavy with infection. He pulled the scope away and rubbed Sherlock's back gently as he watched the monitors, whispering to Molly that they should culture some of the hardened phlegm that Sherlock managed to cough up. 

He turned his attention to the monitors, watching his sats. "Slow and deep, that's it, Sherlock, that's fine."

Molly slipped out with the basin. Sherlock pulled the mask back over his face and looked to John. He squeezed his hand. "You look less than pleased with what's going on. Bad then? Feels bad. The coughing is hell."

John reached down and put the regular oxygen mask back on Sherlock's face, angling the bed up a bit higher, "It's just a stubborn pneumonia, I want it gone. Here, I'm going to poke at your belly, yelp if it hurts," he said with a quirked smile in an effort to lighten the mood for Sherlock. He eased Sherlock's gown to the side and looked at the wound, careful fingers clinically exploring. "Healing well, doesn't feel like you've pulled anything deep. Drain incision is nearly healed as well. Those go quick. How's it feel?" 

Sherlock dragged in a few more lungfuls of air before he could answer. “Fine. Chest is what hurts now really.” Sherlock paused with his eyes closed, catching his breath. “Thank you for coming back after I was such a stupid arse.” He looked up at John again. “You look exhausted, John.” 

Molly came back in with a new basin and set it beside the bed. "Mark is on his way in. I'll be outside if anyone needs me." She touched John's arm and slipped out again.

John eased back and corrected Sherlock's gown and blankets, getting him comfortable once more. "I'm fine, Sherlock, I'm fine. You were not stupid, you needed rest. I've been distracting for you. Of course I came back." 

He looked up as Mark walked in the room, giving him a tight nod and stepping back so that he could take a look. "Shifted some of it, still diminished though. RT hasn't been in."

Mark listened to and prodded Sherlock as moved around the bed, "Cho makes her rounds in the evenings. I've called and demanded RT get up here already. I don't know what happened there." Sherlock looked nothing short of pitiful. He scrubbed at a tear on his face. "I want to go home." His voice was small, dejected as he sat there while Mark checked him over.

Moving around Mark to keep out of the way, John crouched in front of Sherlock and slid his palm along Sherlock's face, holding his hand. "Well, I've basically done their treatment for this morning, I don't think he can tolerate another round of that at the moment. This evening will be fine. He's hungry, can we try soup or something?"

He squeezed Sherlock's fingers and brushed his lips against Sherlock's knuckles, whispering softly, "It's okay."

Mark nodded. "I'll make sure they're here. Let me get him some broth and one of those shakes. He should be able to hold those down with no problem. If he does well I'll go ahead and put in an order for jelly and crackers later. Let him try crackers first, see if his stomach tolerates something more solid. Does that sound good, Sherlock?" 

Sherlock nodded, squeezing John's hand back. Mark looked up at the monitors. "I think we're going to move you after you eat. Time to boot you out of this ward and into a step-down unit. Still an ICU, just not this one." He looked back to John. "Comfortable with that?"

John tried to hide the shock of fear that lit down his spine like lightning. Carefully he shook his head, doing his best to keep his voice steady. "Give him one more night, yeah? I just… one more night. See how he is after a few treatments. Just… humor a paranoid doc, if you would." 

He stood up, sliding his fingers in Sherlock's hair as he watched Mark. "I know it's likely that he is just fine, I just need to be sure. Please."

Mark nodded. "Alright. We've rooms here, so no push to step him down. I'll order that food and have it brought in, okay?" He watched them for a minute. "Right, well if you need anything have me paged. Anything else?" Sherlock shook his head and leaned with relief into John's touch.

John drew a deep, slow breath and shook his head, thanking Mark and watching him leave. He carried on with his hand in Sherlock's hair, his free hand wrapping gently around the side of Sherlock's neck, trying to sooth him. "We'll let you alone for a few hours, no more of that. Some broth ought to help, ease that throat and all. If you can keep that down, we'll get you tea. I'm sorry this is so terrible," Sherlock looked smaller than John had ever seen him. He picked up the damp cloth and slid it along Sherlock's forehead again, anything to make him more comfortable. 

"Want this bloody mask off. Want free of it. Please can I try something in the nose? I want to brush my teeth. My breath is-" Sherlock shook his head as he closed his eyes, soaking up the attention from John. "I'm sorry you're having to take care of my like this. You need rest too. They- I got hysterical. They drugged me. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." Sherlock's breathing hitched again, "Don't leave, you said you'd leave after you slept. Please don't leave. You can go if you need to do things, I understand I do. P-please, John." The morphine and endless coughing had worn Sherlock thin.

"We can try a cannula but if your sats drop it's back on the mask," John said quietly, moving away to get that set up. He called for Molly, asking her to get Sherlock a basin and a toothbrush, swiftly swapping the nasal cannula for the mask. He hung the mask to the side, it would take seconds to get it set back up if needed.

Molly appeared a few minutes later with a glass of water, a basin, toothbrush and toothpaste. She set it all up on the tray for Sherlock. He took close to ten minutes before he was satisfied with how his mouth felt. Molly gave him a damp cloth and got rid of the offending leftovers from his ablutions. He laid back in the bed after he'd wiped his face, breathing deeply through his nose. 

Sherlock reached out and wrapped his hand around John's.

John was closely watching Sherlock's monitors, flicking his eyes between the readouts and Sherlock himself, watching his color. "Molly, can you pop by Baker Street at some point and bring him night clothes? I think we've all had more than our fill of free peeks at his backside." He squeezed Sherlock's hand and settled down in his chair, looking up at the monitor, his legs feeling less than their normal strength from long set in exhaustion. The night last had been… horrific, to say the least, and left him worn down and raw. He was doing his best to maintain as it was. 

Molly flushed but nodded. "I can, absolutely."

Sherlock watched them, smirking after a moment. "It's a nice backside. I don't see the problem..." 

Molly huffed at him. "Sherlock Holmes. Honestly!"

Soon enough a little nurse with gray hair and a warm smile came in with a tray. "Broth and a drink for you Mr. Holmes. Go easy with it." She set it down and wheeled it over to Sherlock, who nodded and picked up the little white cup with a lid and straw.

He sighed in relief, very glad they’d put the broth in a cup, freeing him from the effort of handling a spoon while his hands were so prone to shaking. He sipped at it, slow and measured, closing his eyes and groaning nearly obscenely with the taste of it. 

Molly dropped her book and blustered at the sound, color rising high on her cheeks.

"Christ, Sherlock." She muttered and swiped her book off the floor. "Did that on purpose." 

Sherlock smirked. "I've not eaten in a month. It's good."

Molly shot him a glare and went back to her book, grumbling. "What a relief it is to see you’ve maintained the ability to be a complete arse."

John had leaned back in his...no, that wouldn’t do at all, he had to be more guarded. He leaned back in _the_ chair, folding into it as comfortably as he could, watching Sherlock try at food while his eyes drooped. He had his arms crossed over his chest and hummed when he'd start to drop off in an effort to keep himself awake. When Molly flustered he quirked a tired smile, shaking his head as he hitched an ankle over his knee. 

"There isn't a cure for 'arsehole,' I don't think, Molly," John quipped, his voice gruff and low with exhaustion.

Sherlock looked over to John. "Curl up in your chair, please? Get some rest. As soon as I get this down I'm going back to sleep. Molly looks content, if not flustered." She rolled her eyes at him. Sherlock got about a quarter cup of the broth down before attempting some of the shake, "Oh, that is foul." He kept at it though and took half of it before he pushed the tray away. 

Molly got up and rolled it out of the way. Sherlock shifted until he was on his side, facing John.

John hummed and waited until Sherlock was finally in position to sleep himself. He shifted and eased back in the chair, getting to his side and pushing the back to an angle, slightly drawing up his knees. He was going to fall asleep whether he wanted to or not, so he figured he should simply get comfortable. 

Sherlock reached through the railing and let his hand curl on the arm of John's chair. His voice was soft, Pashto, "I love you. Thank you." He closed his eyes as he settled in. Molly had her nose buried in her book, ignoring the both of them for a modicum of privacy.

John closed his eyes and, after a few moments, wrapped his fingers over the back of Sherlock's hand. He refused to think on the catastrophic mess his life had become. How had he, without some sort of substance addiction, without some sort of criminal activity or gambling habit, managed to tank his existence so spectacularly? He'd done as he should have. Absent, neglectful parents and addict sister aside, he'd gone in the military, found his way through medicine, defended his country the better part of a decade and then came home to babysit a crime solving sociopath (who wasn’t, really), whom he'd fallen desperately in love with and not realized until he'd failed to talk him down off the roof. 

Then, in his panicking isolation, John had fallen for... He had no idea who he'd fallen for. She had beautiful blue eyes and a smile that had been like a warm quilt. She'd never allowed him to indulge in self-pity, never dropped him, never let him fall. 

Then she'd put a bullet in Sherlock while pregnant with John's child.

John was suddenly up out of his chair, dizzy as he bolted for the lav. He was gone nearly twenty minutes before returning, pale and drawn, mouth smelling of mint and fingers freezing as he sank back into the chair, curling on his side again, completely miserable. 

Molly texted Mycroft after John bolted, frowning deeply and considerably worried.

_Things don't look very good here. John is sick. Sherlock's upset. Just an update, holding my own fine and neither of them seem to be in danger._

Sherlock had dozed off despite his trying to stay awake. When John came back he opened his eyes. He tried to say something but was dragged back under before he could.

Mycroft's text was swift in return. 

_John has unfortunately become a stressor, rather than a relief to Sherlock. It may be prudent to ask him to leave when my brother is sleeping. It will be less… traumatic for Sherlock if he's already gone._

John returned and staggered to the chair, curling up on his side. He lay there, nearly dozing but not quite allowing himself to sleep, staring at the monitors as Sherlock slept, unaware of Molly's conversation.

Molly had to re-read the text multiple times to make sure she'd understood it correctly. 

_I don't think that wise. You risk them both if John is forced out. I refuse to do that kind of dirty work for you._

Again Mycroft's text was swift. 

_You mistake me, Molly. I've very deep concern for the both of them. John was a comfort to my brother, now he is a concern. John is, as you must see, making himself ill trying to manage. Perhaps if asked to leave for a few days, he'd finally properly rest and sort out what needs his attention. If you have other suggestions, you've my attention. Clearly they cannot carry on as they are._

Molly closed her eyes for a moment before texting back.

_Sherlock keeps apologizing for last night. Profusely. Your brother, apologizing. I don't know what to do. I'll talk to him, I guess. Jesus Christ. I don't know what to say. They've talked about moving Sherlock. Putting him in another ICU._

Mycroft paused before replying.

_Move him? Has he deteriorated? I can be there within the hour, faster if there is an issue. Do not, if you would, speak to Sherlock on the issue of removing John. He was very unsettled with John leaving the night last. Though he slept and slept better than he had done before. I do not see an alternative. -M_

_No, the opposite. To a less intense ward. He ate, Mycroft. He ate broth and drank some of that meal replacement shake. His lungs are still rough, got some junk out of them earlier. Mycroft I don't think separating them is wise. But I'm going to try something. Okay? John is resting, Sherlock is asleep, so I will try when they wake. Might see if he'll go to my flat.- Molly_

Molly just wanted her friend feeling better. She scrubbed a hand through her hair.

_Ah, well good news is always welcome. You are free to try what you feel best, Molly. Thank you.- M_

John lay there watching Sherlock, drifting off before startling himself awake. He'd rested that morning for several hours, and wanted to keep an eye on Sherlock's sats. He shifted slightly from time to time, his stomach tense and his mind racing, too wound up to properly rest anyhow. The last he wanted was to come awake sharply again and wake Sherlock up in the process. 

Molly moved to the side of John's chair and squatted down beside him. "Hey... Tonight, do you want to go to my flat and I can stay with Sherlock? You'd have to put up with Toby, but he only wants cuddles. I'm just asking because you look like you could use some uninterrupted sleep. That's all. I could go home, clean up, put some new sheets on the bed for you."

John shook his head, looking down at his lap and speaking softly. "I've still got that room… was just waiting to..." he swallowed and cleared his throat. He’d been expecting to be shown the door, which was why he’d refused himself more sleep while there. He cleared his throat, whispering again a moment later. "He'd probably like your company more than Mycroft's. Will you let me know if there is a change?"

Molly shook her head, putting her hand on John’s forearm. "I'm not asking you to leave. I'm not. You look run into the ground, John. I just don't want you sick too. That's all. He won't like you being gone. I just want you rested. You just look so tired and worn out. I'll stay with him, of course. John I am not having you out. I'm not. If you want to stay I'm not going to say anything else." 

"I know you're not," John said quietly, still looking down at his hands. "I'm...Mycroft was likely right to make me leave yesterday. Sherlock...I see how he looks at me, I'm...not helping anymore. I, yeah I'm...tired." He gave himself a few moments to breathe, pushing down the rising panic in his chest before looking back to her. "If they move him, just make sure someone is watching his sats." 

He rubbed his hands across his gritty eyes and looked at the clock. It was already late afternoon. He drew in a deep, slow breath, sitting up more. "I suppose I should go before...yeah, should go." 

Molly frowned, "You're coming back, right? Rest up however long and come back? I'll stay, I don't mind I'm going to stay with him... I just want to be able to tell him... He's-" Molly shook her head. "He loves you so much."

John got slowly to his feet, stiff and fully resistant to the idea of leaving. He looked over to Sherlock and then back to Molly. "Yeah, I'm...of course. I just...I don't want to give them...I don't want to hear..." it was so much easier to deal with if he walked out on his own, rather than being shown the door. He chewed at the inside of his lip and shook his head. "Thanks for staying with him, Molly."

Molly nodded to him, watching as John clearly battled- fear or tears, she couldn’t say. "Call me if you need anything. Rest up. I've a feeling I'm going to have my hands full while you're gone." Molly stood up and hugged him. "Just get some rest.. Everything will be easier after you get some rest."

John looked back at Sherlock, debating waking him. "Please tell him...tell..." he drew a deep breath and shook his head, turning and walking from the room instead of finishing the thought, his throat tight as he headed out of the hospital, back to the hateful room he'd rented. 

He hailed a cab, leaning his forehead against the cold glass as they moved. He had no memory of leaving the vehicle and getting to his room, but soon enough he was sitting in a chair, staring at nothing at all, listening to the clock tick on the wall. >

Molly texted Mycroft. 

_He left, but went back to his room he apparently rented. Sherlock was asleep. He's not going to be happy when he comes awake. But I'm here. I won't leave him._

__

_I am already on my way back. He will be fine, I am sure.- -M ___

Mycroft then picked up the phone to ring Mary, interested in speaking with her about the day's events. 

Mary put the phone on speaker as she washed dishes. "What can I do for you Mycroft? Has something happened?"

Mycroft hummed, speaking in the next moment. "Outside of the frankly stunning decline of John, no. Well, yes, but that is rather more to do with Ava and less Mary. I've spoken with Charles today, over many hours. I thought you'd be interested in the conversation." 

Mary took in a sharp breath. "I see. Yes, I am, but I am more concerned about John. Is he still at hospital with Sherlock?"

Mycroft hummed low. "Hmm, no, he isn't. I believe he's realized that he's become... distracting for my brother. He's excused himself, I believe."

Mary dropped the dish she'd been scrubbing and swore as it shattered. She took a calming breath before speaking, "I see. Do you know where he is then?"

Mycroft frowned at the sound of the shattering plate. "No...I do not. He's either at Baker Street, or whatever room it was he spent the night in last. Are you quite alright?"

"I'll be fine." Mary's voice was tight. "I need to find John. What did _he_ have to say?"

"I've negotiated for your safety. Seems shooting my brother was great amusement for him, and he's...well...the effect is pleasing, in his mind, and he holds no interest in harming you further. For now, at the least, he is distracted with the goings on as they are. We do not need to venture into further detail. I ask that you refrain from further wet-work without alerting me, if you'd be so kind."

"The only work I wanted was him. I've been quite happy the way things were. I need to find John. He looked horrible yesterday. Do you have any ideas where the room is? Thank you, for dealing with him... Magnussen I mean." She let out a shaking breath as she cleaned up the broken plate.

"No. He left Baker Street with Mrs. Hudson in a panic and took off. Paid with cash, no idea. He was responsive for my brother via phone, though he ignored me. My hopes are that he has returned to Baker Street."

"Christ. Thank you, Mycroft. I have to go if that's all. I have to make sure he's okay. It was one thing with him at the hospital. This is entirely different." Panic crept into her voice. "I- I have to find him."

Mycroft sighed into the phone. "Alert me if there is trouble." 

He rang off and stared out the window, deep in thought as they moved through London. When he arrived at Bart's, he stopped at the shop and collected things for them all, carrying them himself up to Sherlock's room. He smiled to Molly and handed her a box with noodles and chicken, setting down a cup of broth for Sherlock and a sandwich for himself. "How has he been," he asked softly. 

"He brushed his teeth for ten minutes, demanded we take the mask off, the pneumonia is being stubborn. RT should be in to try and break up some of the stuff in his lungs soon. If you've any sort of weak stomach, don't stay. He hasn't woken since John left- Mycroft, He's going to be upset." Molly looked up to him and frowned.

"He will be for a moment, but he will see reason just as John has. This is for the best, unfortunately. They have begun to feed off the other, and neither has anything left to give." 

He forced himself to go at the sandwich, no appetite whatsoever, though knowing he needed the food. 

Molly tucked into her food, watching Sherlock for signs of waking as she ate. She didn't taste anything, simply eating for the physical need of it. "I hate seeing them like this," she said after pushing away the last bit of her food away. Molly looked to Mycroft. "How are you?"

Mycroft was just crumpling up his wrapper and brushing off his hands as she spoke. He arched a brow and took a deep, slow breath. “I have been better, though I am alright. Much relieved now that Sherlock seems to consistently be on the mend.”

Molly nodded at that. “I hope so. He’s-” 

Sherlock muttered, “Tired of listening to people. I am hungry.” He cracked open an eye and saw the broth. “Oh good, more liquid chicken.” He rolled to his back and raised the bed. He looked around as his expression shadowed. “Where is John, Mycroft?”

Mycroft stood and brought the soup over, setting it beside Sherlock with a spoon. “Likely resting, Sherlock, and giving you the opportunity to do the same.” He looked over him for a moment, “How are you feeling?”

Sherlock stared at him. He pushed the food away and started the slow motion of laying the bed back down. Molly watched as he rolled away from them both and pulled the blanket over his head.

Mycroft rolled his eyes with a long suffering sigh. “Oh, by all means, undo the progress in a fit of pique. I’m sure that will set John right at ease.” He spoke with a tight smile, lightly bouncing on the balls of his feet in punctuation. 

Sherlock turned to face Mycroft and swore at him, speaking in Serbian to show how livid he was, “Whose idea was it? He didn’t sleep at all last night. Phone, _now._ ”

Molly flinched as Sherlock raised the bed, continuing his diatribe in the language she didn’t understand. 

“He’s exhausted and likely _alone_. That, as you well know, is likely exceedingly dangerous for him!”

Mycroft nodded, “Ah. I see. You believe I ran him off. He was gone before I arrived, Sherlock. He clearly understands that this has become... less conducive to your healing, shall we say? I am sure he is _fine,_ Sherlock. Eat and get some more rest if you are tired, I understand you’ve a treatment soon.”

“I’m not hungry.” Petulant French rolled off his tongue. “And I don’t want that treatment. It hurts. And you did run him off, I don’t know how, but after last night, it’s your fault.” He drew the covers to his chin as he sat in the bed. Molly watched his eyes water up and her heart broke for him as they spilled over. “I told you he’d hate me after last night.”

Mycroft shook his head. “The poor man has gone to rest, Sherlock. This is all of his second day out of hospital in a month, in what way does this tell you he hates you? Do be reasonable. Molly, he doesn’t want the treatment, perhaps you will have better luck.” 

He stepped back, openly frustrated, shoving one hand into his pocket in an effort to ease his nerves. 

Molly closed her eyes for a moment. “You have to, Sherlock. Pneumonia can kill you. If you don’t do the treatment and something happens to you, just what do you think that will do to John?” 

Sherlock’s eyes went to her before he looked back down at the blanket. “It really hurts.” He said in a softer tone, back to English.

“I know, but it’s better to hurt now than let it kill you, Sherlock.” She answered him as gentle as she could. 

Sherlock looked back up to Mycroft. “He- I’ve foisted so much on him. I didn’t mean to, but I have.”

“I rather think, brother, in this case it was his wife, and not you, who bears the burden of responsibility. Now, will you not try and eat? Molly is quite correct, it will do him no good if you deteriorate while he is away.” His voice was softer than normal, sympathetic to Sherlock’s condition despite being incredibly tired himself. 

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at Mycroft. “Don’t start.” His gaze turned to the soup and he shook his head. “I’ve lost my appetite. John’s gone, you want to pick a fight about Mary… I’m too tired. I don’t care.”

He took a slow breath. “I will do my treatment. I will sit here and be _good_ for you.”

Mycroft shrugged out of his suit coat and draped it over the chair by the bed. “I do not at all wish to pick a fight with you, Sherlock. In fact, I spent my day securing her safety. If you would rather I not stay, I will leave. I’ve no wish to upset you further, I simply did not want you here alone if Mrs. Hooper has need to leave.”

Mycroft was saved Sherlock’s further petulance aimed at him by the arrival of the respiratory therapist. Sherlock leveled her with a glare that made her take a step back. “Mr. Holmes?” He looked away from her, refusing to answer and she furrowed her brow, turning to Mycroft.

Mycroft waved a hand, “Do go on, he’s in a bit of a strop. Don’t expect conversation, but he won’t bite, will you, brother?” He stepped more to the side, intent on remaining in the room, though leaving room for Molly to stand closer. It was obvious he was anything but a comfort to Sherlock at the moment. 

The woman nodded and Molly stepped over and prepared the basin for him as the therapist helped him to his side. She listened to his lungs for a moment before she started working over his back. Her hands were rougher than John’s, working hardest on the worst spots. A few minutes in Sherlock started coughing.

He cried out when he could managed enough of a breath between bone-jarring coughs, and within minutes was crying out like a child for Mycroft.

Mycroft decided, then and there, that this was one of the worst things he’d seen Sherlock subjected to outside of Serbia. He moved swiftly to Sherlock’s side, sliding his palm over Sherlock’s hair, holding it back gently. He wrapped an arm around Sherlock’s shoulders out of the nurse's way, holding tight to him. “It’s alright, Sherlock, it’s alright. You are doing well, this will help, it’s alright.”

Sherlock wept, heavy tears falling from his face, gasping for breath and choking as he tried to bring up the infection.

The woman listened to him again and spoke when she was done, her tone apologetic. “Dr. Cho should be by shortly. The good news is, that definitely broke loose some of the phlegm.” She looked up to Mycroft. “I’ll ask them to bring in some pain medication. Is there anything else you need?”

She came around with gloves and collected the basin from him as she spoke. Molly handed a damp cloth to Mycroft.

Mycroft took the cloth and spoke in soft French to Sherlock as he wiped his face, “Slow breaths, Sherlock, slow and deep. You did very well, and I’ll make sure they give you something for your pain. Slow and deep. I’m sorry that was so difficult.” He carefully cleaned Sherlock’s face, moving in a way that he hadn’t since Sherlock was very young and sick. “You’re alright, nice and slow.” 

Sherlock leaned into Mycroft’s touches, trying to breathe properly again. The therapist slipped out as Sherlock whimpered an apology to his big brother. “I worry about him.” His words were jumbled French as he tried to calm back down. “I put too much on him, telling him how I feel.”

Mycroft answered gently, tending to Sherlock as he had so many years ago. “I think you did the opposite when you told him, Sherlock,”I imagine most of what’s on his mind is not your doing. He finds solace in you. You are not the problem.” 

Sherlock whimpered and closed his eyes, “Please send him a text to let me know how he’s doing when he wakes?”

The nurse returned with a syringe in her hand, “Mr. Holmes, I have some pain medication for you. Morphine.” Sherlock nodded and watched as she pushed it. After a moment Sherlock sighed in relief. 

The nurse checked his vitals as she tossed the syringe in the sharps container. “Don’t hesitate to call if you need anything.” She slipped from the room, patting Molly’s arm on the way by.

Mycroft nodded, already pulling out his phone and sending the text. “You need to rest, Sherlock. Can you sleep? That Morphine should help. You’ve worked hard today.” 

He eased his hands back, watching Sherlock carefully, wanting to do more to help him. 

Sherlock laid back down, curled to his side. He raised the head slightly, easing his breathing. He closed his eyes as he gripped the pillow. “I want to go home, My.” His voice was small, exhausted. 

It had been an age since Sherlock had called him that, other than when coming back from Serbia and out of his head. So long, in fact, he’d nearly forgotten the last time. Sherlock would seemingly stop at no length to goad him, but he’d never utilized that moniker to do so. No, that was reserved, clearly, for times of honest desperation. Mycroft slid his fingers through Sherlock’s hair and whispered softly to him, “I know, ‘lock, I know. I will take you as soon as I can. Promise.” His French was less than steady as he tried to soothe him. 

Sherlock nodded and soon the morphine did its job. Sherlock was out of pain and asleep. His breathing was deep and less labored than it had been. Molly watched the two of them. Sherlock leaned toward Mycroft even in his sleep.

Mycroft cleared his throat and pinched the bridge of his nose for just a moment before looking to Molly. “I will be here the duration of the night. You should go home and rest. I am deeply appreciative of your willingness to stay the day with them, I had urgent matters to address.” 

Molly nodded as she gathered her things. “I will be back in the morning if you need me?” She chewed on the inside of her cheek.

Mycroft nodded and cleared his throat. “I will ring if that’s the case, yes,” he said quietly, sliding a hand into his pocket and looking back to Sherlock. 

Molly closed the distance between them and wrapped her free arm around him. She gave Mycroft a small squeeze as she went on her tiptoes and kissed his cheek. “Don’t run yourself down. I mean it.” She smiled to him before touching the bed beside Sherlock’s hand and heading to the door with a small wave.

Mycroft gently touched the side of his face where she had struck him, and then, remarkably, kissed him, reminding him once again that people made exactly no sense whatsoever and his time was wasted trying to learn them better. His lip quirked up and he shook his head, dropping his hand to his side before easing into the chair John had occupied. 

He watched Sherlock for a while, focused on the quality of his breathing, the fact that he was managing to sleep with the help of morphine. As difficult as it was for Sherlock and John, he was infinitely grateful to John for seeing reason, at least. The thought made him draw out his phone, checking for messages, of which he found none. He debated texting Mary, but if John was avoiding her, it would be less than kind to do. The man was in a difficult -if not self inflicted- mess as it was, he needed little else on top of it. 

Doctor Cho came in and startled at Mycroft. She schooled her face, “My apologies, I was expecting Doctor Watson. I’m Doctor Cho, Mr. Holmes’ Pulmonologist.” She held out her hand to Mycroft with a small, professional smile on her face.

Mycroft got to his feet and shook her hand, nodding. “Mycroft Holmes. Elder brother.” He gave her a warm smile that did not quite reach his eyes. “I’ll ask you to avoid waking him if at all possible. He worked rather hard on that last one. Incredibly painful. Is there nothing to be done of that?” 

Cho gave a sad smile. “I’m afraid not. Though I noticed they didn’t give him medicine until after. We’ll make sure they have orders to have dosed him about ten minutes prior to starting. It will make it easier on him.” She was quiet and gentle as she listened to his lungs. Cho frowned at the bottom of one. “Going to order he be given more treatments along with the percussion. We really need to break that up. Overall I’m happy with how his white count is progressing. It’s still high, but it has dropped, which is better than the alternative. Your brother is a strong man Mr. Holmes.” 

She looped her stethoscope over her neck. “I think he can be moved to the new unit tomorrow. I read Doctor Watson had asked he spend one more night in here. I can hardly blame him. But overall he’s progressing in a way we like.”

Mycroft nodded. “Doctor Watson has severely taxed himself. I accept your opinion over his at the moment, at least on that front. He is an outstanding physician, but this is too close to him. Thank you for stopping in, hopefully he can be made more comfortable in a different room.” Mycroft stepped back, keeping an eye on Sherlock even as he smiled at Dr. Cho. 

Cho nodded to him. “I know John, I’ve worked with him. Quite frankly I was surprised to see him here- ah like this. I’m glad to know he’s getting some rest. Have a good evening Mr. Holmes.” She smiled and stepped back out to write her orders for Sherlock.

Mycroft followed her out without pause. His voice was stronger in the hall, though still too quiet to attract attention. “I do hope there is no need to obtain assurances of discretion, where my brother’s relationship with Doctor Watson is concerned?”

Cho turned to Mycroft with an eyebrow raised. “Your brother deduced my life within seconds of meeting me. You, Mr. Holmes, have the same look in your eyes that he does, only sharper somehow. Of course I’m not going to say anything. I’m just glad your younger brother has someone. It’s always harder when they don’t have anything to fight for.”

Mycroft visibly flinched at that before swiftly schooling himself. He gave her a soft smile and a nod. “Very good, I do appreciate your willingness to keep this to yourself.” He moved back into the room and settled back down in the chair, watching Sherlock sleep. 

Sherlock stirred enough to see Mycroft by the bed. His mouth quirked up in the corner before he fell asleep again. His breathing was even and deep.

\---

John stepped out of the shower for the sixth time that night. The two hours he’d managed to sleep had ended with hotel security banging on the door, trying to see if he was alright. He’d screamed himself hoarse by the time they’d got there, managing to sick up beside the bed as he tore out of the dream. After that, he’d forced himself to stay up, moving into and out of the shower as frequently as he could stand. 

He was ready to fall over. He couldn’t carry on as he was. John moved to the bed and finally went back down to his side, pulling his charging mobile from the wall and starting to text with badly shaking hands. 

_I don’t know what I’m doing._

Mary’s picture smiled up at him from her user screen as he sent the message, feeling drunk from exhaustion, nearly as though already dreaming again. He clicked off the side light and let the soft blue illuminate the room. 

Mary’s reply came seconds later. 

_Been looking for you all evening. Where are you, John?_

She stood in front of yet another hotel, tears stinging her eyes, hours into a desperate search for him. She’d been combing hotels, one after the other, a photograph of him in hand. Her feet were swollen from walking and her back ached. She closed her eyes waiting for him to text back.

_Hotel. I couldn’t handle Baker Street._

John blinked and tried to remember the name of the hotel, then realizing that would likely lead Mary to him, and he couldn’t think as it was, and what a horrible idea that would be except oh god, how it would feel to get rid of _alone._

_Please tell me where. I’ve been looking for two hours, John. I won’t give up and my feet already hurt. Please?_

Mary walked back toward where she’d parked the car. She was exhausted from looking for him, but she’d be damned if she gave up.

John stared at the text for a few minutes, his vision warping and blurring in and out of focus, before closing his eyes and abruptly dropping off. He snapped awake eighteen minutes later and read the text again, wondering when the hell he’d found time to get pissed? He was intoxicated, surely. He pinged his location to her phone and dropped his hand to the bed, gripping the duvet as the room began to spin. 

Mary got in the car and headed to John’s location. She was fifteen minutes from him. It would have taken her hours, if not longer, to find him. She parked in a nearby garage and entered the hotel. She asked after him in the lobby and soon was knocking on his door.

John heard the knock and took several seconds to remember that he’d pinged his location to Mary. He closed his eyes as his heart rolled and then got up from the bed, stumbling and swaying the short way before opening the door. His voice was wrecked from shouting as he addressed her. “I’m sorry, I didn’t intend for you to look for me.”

“I’ve been looking for you all evening.” Mary shook her head, taking in the alarming state of him. “Lie down. Just- lie down.” Her hands fluttered nervously as she tried to help him, touching his face before drawing back. “Please, John, for a moment just allow yourself to pretend none of this happened and let me comfort you for a bit. You can go back to- we can revisit all of this when you’re better and you can shout the walls down around me if you need to. Just please, let’s get you in bed.” 

John let her into the room and closed the door, slowly following her inside. He set his jaw as he considered his position, one hand suddenly moving out as he splayed his palm against the wall. “I didn’t ask you to come. I didn’t ask you to… to look for... I wouldn’t have. You’re not feeling well you shouldn’t have been out. I don’t need making you sick again on me, Mary, I’ve already done that once. I can’t be near- I’ve already wrecked-” his throat closed off on him and he looked at his feet, taking deep breathes through parted lips. 

Mary was nearly in tears listening to him, aching for his pain. Her voice was soft and she reached out to steady him. “Breathe, John. That’s it. Just-” Mary took in a sharp breath. “You need to lie down and sleep or you need to go to hospital. You’ve no idea how you look, do you? John, please.”

John pressed a shaking hand to his eyes when he felt the burn of tears, too exhausted to fight them. Best he could do was hide them. He curled his fingertips on the wall and roughly answered her. “I can’t. I’ve been trying. I can’t. I don’t even remember getting here... don’t remember drinking anything at all.” Of course, he hadn’t had a drop, his mind doing that work for him. 

Mary nodded to the bed. “Can you lie down with me? I’m feeling better, please let me help you now. I know it’s a lot to ask, I’ve no right to ask, but try? For your sake? Let your mind blank out and just lie with me?” Mary took a few steps toward him and put a hand on his arm. “Let’s just lie down for a bit. See if you can’t get back to sleep.”

John scrubbed at his eyes and nodded. He couldn’t go to hospital. He just couldn’t. He moved back over to the bed and managed to get himself under the blankets, so tired it was making his breath catch. 

Mary moved to the bed and made sure John was tucked in well. She crawled in beside him and stroked her hand down his back, touching and soothing him the way she always had when her husband came up shouting and sweating with dreams. She bit at her lip to keep herself steady, drowning in guilt for his pain.

John pressed a hand over his face as his breathing caught in a sudden, sharp sob. He tried to keep his mind quiet and just let her do this, just accept the moment. This had, at one point, been the most incredible gift he’d ever been given. Now, it was a sharp reminder of what had been so ruthlessly torn away from him. 

“I keep trying not to love you anymore,” he bemoaned behind his hand, shaking his head, “it’s still not working.”

Mary closed her eyes and let that wash over her, speaking very softly a moment later. “I’m sorry. I wish I could make you not hurt anymore. I love you, I do, John. I never set out to hurt you, and I’ve done so terribly. I would take it from you, John, all this hurt if I could.” Mary folded her hand over his shoulder. “I am sorry.”

John loathed himself for his weakness, wanting nothing more than to present a suitable front, kick up his defenses and keep himself steady. Instead he bit down harshly on the side of his lip and forced himself to bloody well shut up. He’d gone from a combat veteran, to a sodding _joke,_ and here he lay adding to the punchline in his own tears. 

Mary just watched him, willing him to sleep, her body aching from searching for him. She longed to touch him again, though had no desire to set him off. 

It took time, but eventually John dropped back down, his breathing evening out and his muscles slowly relaxing as sleep wrapped around him, his mind finally allowing him a bit of oblivion. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As ever, thank you so much for your comments. Your feedback is very encouraging and helps with editing motivation. It's such a treat to read your thoughts.


	12. Chapter 12

Mary texted Mycroft with John’s location.

_He’s safe, asleep. I’m sure Sherlock will want to know. M_

It was four hours before John came up shouting cracking along his raw vocal chords. He bolted upright, breathing fast and wild as he stumbled for the light. He flicked it on and swept his eyes wildly about the room, verifying where he was and what was happening to him. When he was sure he was not in the sand, not watching Sherlock die in the streets, he closed his eyes and leaned his shoulder against the wall, taking a moment to catch his breath back. 

They hadn’t been this bad in years. It was disconcerting, to say the least. 

Mary’s voice was soft. “Just a bad one, John. Lie back down. It’s okay, you ran yourself into the ground, need a little time to reset.”

John winced and set his jaw as he pressed a hand over his face. “You’re here,” he said quietly, his mind racing. Christ, he’d thought he’d dreamt that. “If you’re here then Mycroft’s guards are here, which means Mycroft knows where I am. Wonderful.” 

He dropped his hand away and dropped down to sit on the bed bed, dizzy as the room swam. He locked his arms at his sides, palms to the bed and fingers blanched in the bedding as his chin rest down to his chest and tried to breathe.

“Lie down, John. Sherlock likely wanted to know where you were.” She pinched the bridge of her nose as she sat in the bed. She’d not slept, her need to watch over John far outweighing her want of sleep. It was rather difficult while she was with child. Her voice was gentle as she looked back at him, heart breaking over his pain. “Please, lie down and go back to sleep.” 

“You don’t have to be here,” he returned, catching how weary she sounded. “I know you’re sick and god only knows why you went out looking for me, but you don’t have to be here.” He was so exhausted it made his teeth hurt. “Don’t hurt yourself over me. I’ve already- just don’t do that.” The guilt over being _protected_ was terrible and far too heavy, owing Sherlock and perhaps Mary both. He was at the core of everyone’s suffering and could not take any more of it.

Mary shook her head at his words, desperate to help him and truly without a way to beyond urging him to much needed sleep. She paused, watching him sadly for a moment before she scooted down in the bed and patted it. “Please? Lie down with me? For a little while?”

John paused as a thought slammed into him like a brick wall. If Mycroft knew where he was, that meant he was in contact with Mary. “Hang on...did you text _Mycroft_? Don’t tell me he’s suddenly friendly with you.” John brought his head back up, the sense of yet again being left out of the loop wrapping around him. “Goddamn it, what is it about me that makes everyone blasted person I give a damn about _lie to me_?”

Mary blinked at him, taken aback by his sudden anger. She had no idea what he was talking about. “What? Now what are you talking about? Mycroft spent the day getting that blasted psychopath Magnussen to leave me alone. Mycroft still wants to kill me, I’m sure. Likely mount my head for what I did to his brother, not that I can blame him. But as it would upset you and Sherlock, he won’t. What are you on about?”

John shook his head and let out a brittle, frustrated laugh. “Forget it,” he said quietly, laying back down. He could hardly get to his feet. Walking out was not an option. 

“Mycroft had me out.” 

Mary stared at him, shocked. “Mycroft had you- Is that why he texted asking if you were with me?” Mary shook her head. “Nothing makes sense right now. We both need sleep. Mycroft couldn’t have had you out, not like you’re thinking. You keep Sherlock well, if nothing else. There must be more to it,”

John shook his head, “No...he was right to do. Sherlock… I… same as you, same as I do to you.” He closed his eyes against his pillow, still feeling sick from the dream. 

Mary gently touched his arm, “You’re not making sense love. Get some more sleep, please.”

John pressed his face into the crook of his arm and dragged in a deep breath, shivering and trying to settle. He pulled in tightly on himself, one hand pressed over his shoulder as he tried to calm himself down. "I… th-this..." he made an audible sound of distress and pulled at his hair as his stomach rolled. 

Mary sat up and pulled herself out of bed. "Alright." She sat down in a chair next to the bed and looked at him. "I love you, John. What do you need from me right now? If you need me to hold you, I will, if you need me to leave, I will. I just want to help you, love."

John pushed himself up to sitting, looking at Mary and then looking away, hating that she was there, that he was responsible for her. "I don't need you pushing yourself to illness for me, first off. Lie down and rest before I have yet another sin to atone for. Please." 

He dragged his hands over his face and pushed himself up, walking into the lav and for the seventh time that night. John stripped and put himself under the hot spray of the shower, desperately trying to thaw the frozen center of _broken_ that clung near his spine and settled in his belly. 

Mary crawled back in bed and buried her face against the pillow, tears slipping down her cheeks her before she could stop them. She took a few minutes to cry, hating that John was so wrecked from everything that had transpired, when her original intent was to keep him whole and sound. _It would break John and I’ll do anything and everything to keep that from happening._ In the end, that’s what happened anyhow. Mary took a deep breath and wiped her face. She calmed herself back down and closed her eyes, attempting to rest.

John lingered in the shower until his legs began to shake and he was tempted to sit down, forcing himself to turn off the taps and step out. He settled down on the closed lid of the toilet, exhausted and worn out. He reached for his mobile with a trembling hand, slowly pecking out a text to Mycroft for want of something to do. 

_how is he doing? did respiratory evr come to se him?_

He closed his eyes and leaned his head back before pushing himself up and starting to dress.

\---

Mycroft opened his eyes, reaching for the phone. He read the text with no small hint of worry at the obviously diminished capacity John had at his disposal, the text scattered and chaotic. He responded swiftly, making an attempt at helping the man relax.

_My brother will be glad you've texted. He's been worried... They did. It was, quite frankly, awful. They are moving him tomorrow._

John swallowed and nodded to himself, a lick of panic shredding across his chest as he considered the move. He leaned hard against the wall, closing his eyes with his phone in his hand. 

_not trying to wory him, im trying t keep out of the way_

He slowly let himself sink down, sitting on the floor with his back to the wall. 

_i dont like them moving him yet. he crashes so fast. are they sure?_

Mycroft took a deep breath as he answered John.

_You do know that I only sent you away for rest, yes? You and Sherlock had started a downward spiral. This is for both of you as much as it pains for you to be separated. The pulmonologist seems to think he will be fine._

Mycroft stared at his brother for a few moments before texting again.

_What can I do for you? Would having a prescription for something to let you rest help? Something for nerves?_

John shook his head, tears slowly rolling down his face. 

_Would have been nice if youd not sent her. now ive that to deal with right this minute._

He grit his teeth and pushed himself back up. He had to leave. This was intolerable. He was quiet as he pulled the lav door open, moving as silently as he could toward his bag, hoping he'd have a moment to collect the few things he had before slipping out. 

_I did not send her. She has done that on her own._

Mary sat up as he crept back in. Resignation shone in her eyes and she nodded "I'll leave unless you'd rather go home." John was trying to escape her company and she was not going to force it on him.

John eased down in the chair beside the bed, staring at her for a long time, quiet as his mind raced. "I don't know what-" he shook his head, dragging in a slow breath. "I don't know what to do here, Mary. I don't. I- it's all so...I can't be with you, I can't be with him, I can't..." he looked down at his feet, shaking his head with a sad smile. "I can't. I don’t belong anywhere.”

He couldn't sleep. He couldn't tolerate staying awake. He couldn't stay here, he couldn't go home. It was intolerable. He'd never felt more like a furious child than he did now. 

Mary blinked in surprise. "I never expected you to give up Sherlock, John. Quite frankly, I expected this much sooner after his return. Sherlock and you love one another very much. I'm not going to stand in the way of that. Do you think you could sleep if you went home? I can stay here or something. You need rest. You need to rest and then go back to him."

"I can't!" he shouted, suddenly dropping his elbows to his knees and pulling at his hair, "I can't, I _can't!_ " He was shaking hard, everything collapsing in on him as he sat there, "I brought this on him! Me! I put him there in that fucking bed and now I'm distracting to him, they _forced me out_ yesterday and what? What do I do now? I lost you, I lost him, I-" he shook his head, dragging in deep lungfuls of air as he tried to settle himself down. 

Mary moved to him, dropping to her knees beside him, "You didn't- This is not your fault. I'm so sorry." She shook her head. "You haven't lost either of us. You haven't."

John forcibly kept himself from reaching for her, so desperate did he want that that he would not allow it. She was...perfection in the human form..too much for the likes of him after all…

"How can I possibly go back to....any of it. How? I just..I wanted....I've not had a family and..." he trailed off, pained and struggling. 

"Please, John. Come to bed? You have a family. You have me, the baby, and Sherlock. You have all of us. You haven't lost anything. You go back to it piece by piece. First, you get some rest. Then you go back to Sherlock... when you're ready, you come back to me." Mary took a small breath. "You don't have to give up Sherlock to come back to me. I never expected you to."

John wrapped a hand around the back of his neck and squeezed as hard as he could, eyes pinched shut, heart pounding in his chest. He was breathing too fast and too shallow, soon watching stars crack along the edges of the darkness. He groaned as he struggled with himself, forcibly dragging in a deep, ragged breath to try and slow himself down. 

"Everything I touch… _everything_..." his sister was gone, he'd listened to woman after woman explain why he was miserable to be around, nearly got one killed, married a person he didn't even know...he choked on a sob, narrowly managing to keep himself from tears. "he was right...it's because I chose you. It's because I chose him, it's _me._ "

This was exactly where John did not need to be. Mary wrapped her arms around him. "Oh John, it's what you are attracted to. We're not this way _because_ of you. You just gravitate toward us. Bed, come on, before you pass out in the floor. You can yell at me or sneak out after you've had rest. For now, _let it go._ Let it all lie. You'll be further from it tomorrow and able to think better. Your lack of sleep and proper nutrition is driving you mad. Up in the bed, rest. You and Sherlock need one another, until you've rested, that's not possible."

John leaned into her and tipped his face down to her shoulder as a tremor ran across his. He allowed himself a few moments to breathe, his eyes burning and stomach clenched tight as he viciously held on to the last scraps of his self control. "How can I just let it go? They're going to move him. He's still so sick. When he crashes, sometimes he's still bloody _talking_ it happens s-so fast. He keeps _dying on me_ and I can't-" he choked on the words, losing the fight against panic and grief, leaning hard against her as it roared over him like a tidal wave. 

"For the night." Mary struggled to get John up, but she was able to. Somehow she got him into bed and the covers over him. She texted Mycroft. 

_Don't suppose you could spare a magic physician with some sleeping pills or Valium could you?_

Mary tried to soothe John, talking to him through it. "Breathe, John. Please just breathe."

John lay on his side, all but gasping as he tried to breathe through the delayed onset panic. It had been weeks coming; the pent up emotion of sitting vigil, of listening to Mary calmly talk to him as he watched Sherlock dying, of trying to sort where he belonged and what the hell he would do with himself if Sherlock died or if Sherlock lived. He cupped his hands over his nose and mouth in an effort to make himself rebreathe the air, at least recognizing the attack for what it was. He'd nursed himself through this sort of gripping hell before, he could do it again. 

Mycroft responded swiftly to Mary. 

_I have one of my private physicians on the way. Does John need to be brought to hospital?_

Mary watched him and her hands hesitated on the phone. She responded after a moment of deliberation.

_Unknown. He believes himself completely barred from Sherlock at this point. He's panicked over all of this. Meds first, Hospital if no improvement I think. Possibly combative. Possibly. He's made no move against me, but with the panic, no idea if he will against someone else._

She took a slow breath. "John, slow, in through your nose, out through your mouth."

Mycroft looked over at his sleeping brother and scrubbed a hand over his mouth. This had the be handled delicately, Sherlock would not tolerate mishandling of John Watson, especially not right now. He sent the message to his physician and informed one of his guards to accompany just in case John became physical. Though last he'd seen him, it was doubtful he'd be able to manage much at all by way of struggle. 

_Understood. I'll send someone along just in case. Do not attempt to step in should that occur. Let me know if there is anything else I can do._

John was locked up tight, muscles coiled and hardly any attention to anything outside of his own body as he tried to master himself. This had the potential to get severely out of his control, a bloody waking nightmare if he wasn't careful. Christ, but it had been ages since he'd been this bad, still dusty from combat and in physical pain from the bullet. He was locked into the act of _in; two...three, out; two... three... four... five... repeat._

Mary watched John try and get a grip on himself until there was a knock at the door. She sent Mycroft a quick text.

_Thank you. They have arrived._

She opened the door with careful movements not wanting to upset John, prepared for something to go wrong and doing her best to prevent that happening. She was relieved to see a doctor and someone who was, without a doubt, one of Mycroft's minions.

The men moved in without hesitation, Mycroft's personal physician walking in with a small leather bag in hand. He moved over to the bedside and crouched down, opening his kit before switching on the bedside light in addition to the others. "Doctor Watson," he said firmly, reaching up and pulling John's hands away from his face, "we can do this with an injection if you'd rather." 

John blinked his eyes open at the man. He'd gone sheet white, sweating and cold. "Who the-" he stopped, swallowing hard as stars danced along the edges of his vision. "Get away from- where is Mary? Mary!" he sat up, suddenly sharply worried that he'd spaced and something had happened to her, horrified that Magnussen’s men had gained entrance.

Mary snapped at him, "Easy with my husband, doctor!" She moved to John’s side. "No, no, I'm here, shh. What this bloody idiot is trying ask you, is if you'd like a pill. You've been in a panic for much longer than you should have been, John, it’s going on an hour now. You need some help. You've been through hell. Please let him give you something for this. Would you rather take a pill or just have a jab?"

John instantly relaxed when he realized that she was okay, easing back down to his side and looking at the men in the room. He swallowed roughly as he tried to catch his breath, struggling hard with himself. "I don't need anything, leave me alone," closing his eyes and putting his hands back to his face. The doctor gently reached up and pulled them away. "Doctor Watson, I've been given instruction to give you something to help with this, which you very obviously need. Would you rather a pill or-" 

John tore his hands away from the man, prompting the guard to step forward, not yet reaching for John but much closer than he had been. John shouted at them to leave off, nearly sicking-up as he yelled, too much happening in his own mind. The physician looked over to Mary, "Just going to give him a jab, easier that way for him I believe."

Mary nodded as she reached out and smoothed John's hair down. "John, it's okay. It's okay, please." She was concerned even more than she had been moments before. She had not believed it a real possibility that John would become anything akin to violent, but he was proving her thought process wrong. She'd only told Mycroft that as a last possible option, here it was at the forefront.

"If-f you'd just leave off I could-" John shouted at them, his eyes shut tight and his handle on his breathing completely shot. He struggled to pull in the next breath as the doctor pulled his arm out straight and swabbed over the vein. John grit his teeth and shook his head, gasping as he tried for a deep enough breath to shout, wanting nothing more than to be damn well left alone. "No!" he managed, nearly pulling his arm away before the hired muscle stepped in and pressed down at John's shoulder with the intent to help keep him still for the injection, unaware of the underlying injury there. 

The effect was instantaneous. John's eyes snapped open as he was pushed past his ability to maintain, exhaustion and stress overwhelmed with the sudden confusion of new people in the room and _pain_. He lashed out in open fear, angry and defensive. "Captain Watson," the guard said as he caught John's other wrist and pushed it down to the bed, "relax, Watson, we are helping. Relax."

Mary's stomach dropped as she listened to _fear_ on her fearless husband’s voice. Her hands flew to her mouth in distress, the hot burn of tears spilling over her lashes as she forced herself to back away, watching John give struggle. She sat down in a chair, nearly whimpering before she warned the guard. "He's been shot there." She was able to get out after a moment. "His shoulder. He was shot." She took in a trembling breath. "John, it's okay, please..."

It only took a few more seconds for the doctor to push the needle into John's vein and give the drug, watching as John's eyes dropped and he went progressively lax against the bed. The guard instantly let up on the shoulder and within a few minutes, let John go entirely. John pulled his arm in, eyes closed as tears pooled at his nose. He struggled to keep himself awake as the doctor checked his pulse and watched him for a moment. Finally he stood up and turned to Mary. "That will be good for the next six hours. I'm leaving pills here for him to take as needed. Mycroft informs that you are a nurse and capable of keeping an eye on him. This should help. Do you need anything else?"

"Leave her alone," John breathed, swallowing against the copper tang in his mouth, "leave her alone." He closed his eyes, not understanding through the drug what the hell was going on, sure that they’d been attacked.

Mary moved to the bed as she shook her head at the doctor, “No, thank you, Doctor.” She climbed in beside John and stroked his hair as the men excused themselves. “I’m here, John. Everyone is safe. Everything is fine. Just rest, love. Just rest.”

John did not say anything else before he was pulled under by the drugs, his breathing finally leveling out and steadying as his muscles relaxed and he dropped out hard, tears slowly dripping off the tip of his nose. He had not pulled away from Mary, nor did he lean into her, though it was clear her assurances that they were safe had helped. 

Mycroft texted ten minutes later. 

_Update?_

Mary texted back, exhausted in her own right.

_He's asleep. Should be down for six hours. Thank you._

She set her alarm for five hours so she could attempt to get John to take a pill and not have him sneak out on her, deeply hoping that would be enough to help him. Mary tucked herself onto John like she had before everything in their lives had gone sideways. Her eyes closed and she attempted to let herself rest.

The medication held John down in sleep without dreams or any level of awareness. He did not move at all, his breathing deep and even, his mind blissfully shut down, leaving his body to recuperate somewhat. 

\---

Sherlock opened his eyes to sunshine streaming into his room, groaning at the light. "The world is not allowed to be this bright and cheerful right now. This is London, where the bloody hell is my rain and cloud cover?" When John failed to respond, Sherlock looked up from the bed, scanning the room for him, only finding Mycroft. He scowled when he remembered what had happened the night last. "Right, no John." Sherlock watched his brother for a moment, eyes narrowed as he took him in.

"You need more sleep."

Mycroft hummed, "You are likely correct," he said from behind his laptop, forgoing the tablet as he worked through most of the night, constantly sending texts instead of making calls in an effort to preserve Sherlock's sleep. "How are you feeling? You've had a good stretch of rest for once." 

He tapped for another moment on the keyboard, clicking the mouse and then shutting the lid as he gave his brother his attention. "You're to be moved today."

Sherlock sucked in a sharp breath. "Will John know where I am? Or is this to prevent his coming back?" There was no snap to his voice. Sherlock's heart rate ticked up as fear crept in. He was not strong enough to battle with his brother, willfully resorting to pleading in his weakness. "D-don't keep him from me completely. Please, Mycroft." 

Mycroft narrowed his eyes and slowly got to his feet, moving over to Sherlock's side. He reached out and swept his palm over his brother's forehead. "I've no intention of keeping him from you, Sherlock. You'll only be moved down the hall, he'll have no trouble finding you. How are you feeling today?"

Sherlock leaned into the touch. "Still tired, exhausted, really. I-" He shook his head. "Everything is just so much effort." His eyes closed as he let his head sink back into the pillow. "I want to get up, to move, to do things and the thought of expending the energy right now even to eat is nigh overwhelming."

"I can have them bring you something to help you sleep, surely rest is all you should be doing. Perhaps a bit of food first? You are still quite ill, though much improved. I understand your impatience but urge rest, brother." Mycroft pressed the button at the bedside for the nurse, hoping there were standing orders or something of that nature to help his brother. 

A nurse came in with a smile on her face. "May I help you, Mr. Holmes?"

Sherlock nodded, "Something to eat and then something to help me rest?" She looked up at the clock. "Respiratory therapy should be by soon. I'll bring you some soup and crackers. Dr. Walthers wants you to try a bit of solids. I'll come in, give you your morphine before they work you over. When they leave, I'll give you something to help you sleep. How does that sound?" 

Sherlock looked to Mycroft and back to the nurse, nodding his agreement.

Mycroft sat with his brother as he tried the soup and crackers, waiting for respiratory to come in. He was mostly quiet, checking his phone from time to time, ever responsible for business. He shook his head and ran a hand over his face at the latest email, beyond irritated with everything he was having to keep up with and poor outcomes to some of his delegating. He was going to have to get back to the office at some point soon. 

"How is the food sitting?"

Sherlock had not missed his brother’s reactions, knowing that Mycroft’s world never stopped. "Go to work, Mycroft. I'm fine. The food is fine. I'm just going to cough my lungs up and go to sleep. Just- go to work. It's written all over you." Sherlock's voice was tired, resigned. "I'm just going to sleep... again."

Mycroft shook his head. "Work will always need my attention, and I will have to go at some point today, but I'll not leave you to endure your treatment alone. Perhaps John will be well enough to visit in a few hours." He pocketed his phone and moved back to Sherlock's side, passively arranging Sherlock's blankets into something more comfortable. 

Sherlock finished the crackers and two thirds of the soup. "I've had enough. It's okay, Mycroft. I'm not a child anymore. You needn't stay." _Lies._ Sherlock looked down at the blanket, picking at it without thinking, a little subconscious tick of nerves. He was tired, everything felt wrong.

"Then indulge your elder brother," he said gently, sliding a hand over Sherlock's. It had been one thing to watch Sherlock at the hands of the Serbs, there had, at the least, been a way for him to control and handle the situation. Here, he was useless, reduced to little more than palliative comfort measures and stressful evenings watching his brother struggle for air. He looked over at Sherlock's monitors. "They will give the medication for pain before they repeat their efforts to clear your lungs. It should not be so… difficult today." 

Oh, how he hoped that held true. 

The nurse came in and smiled. "Your RT is on her way up. Going to give you your pain medicine now Mr. Holmes." 

Sherlock nodded, a numb gesture as he stared down at his hands. The nurse pushed the medicine, eyes on her watch as she did. She threw the sharp away and slipped out. 

Sherlock stayed silent as he sat there. He withdrew into his mind, letting the warmth of the morphine slither over him like an old friend.

Mycroft frowned as he watched his brother. This was hateful. It could not possibly be good for him. "It will be alright, Sherlock," he said in quiet French, squeezing Sherlock's fingers and rubbing the back of Sherlock's hand with his palm. He stayed that way until RT arrived, and then only moved enough to keep out of their way, carrying on holding Sherlock's hand. 

Sherlock didn't speak, or even acknowledge the RT at his back. She frowned but set to work, knocking on Sherlock's back, hoping to loosen the rest of the junk he had in his lungs after she listened to find where it was worst. Sherlock cried when the coughing began, clutching Mycroft's hand until it was over. The therapist brought him a damp cloth and took away the offensive materials he'd managed to expel. 

When he was clean and breathing easier, Sherlock laid back in the bed. He stared at the wall, shutting himself down and away from the rest of the world.

Mycroft frowned as he slid his fingers through Sherlock's hair, deeply worried over the decline. He shook his head after a few minutes and sank back down into his chair, pulling out his phone to text Mary. 

_How is John?_

Mary's alarm had gone off not long before and she was preparing herself for the mental challenge of getting a pill down him. She texted back after setting the water on the nightstand.

_Stirring, about to put another pill down his throat if he'll let me. Should keep his nerves at bay. Do I need to bring him back?_

Mycroft looked up at Sherlock, gently calling his name. He waited before shaking his head and returning the text. 

_I am afraid it looks that way._

Mary nodded to herself as she responded.

_I will have him there as soon as possible._

She braced herself and gently touched John. "John, need you to wake and take this for me. Then I'm going to take you to Sherlock."

John slowly shifted as Mary spoke to him, struggling to wake up under the weight of the drug. He opened his eyes and stared across the room. It took him a few moments before he put together what happened, shaking his head and groggily pushing himself up. "What's wrong? Is- did something- is he okay," he slurred, scrubbing a hand over his eyes. 

Mary shook her head. "Nothing serious as far as I know. Mycroft has requested you come back if you feel like it. John, will you take this pill when we get in the car? I'll take and drop you at Bart's." She gathered his things together for him. "Mycroft didn't say anything was wrong."

John nodded and dropped his feet to the floor, tousling his hair and then pushing to his feet. He swayed hard and grabbed the ledge, swearing.

"I… I didn't know it had got that bad," he said of the night last, embarrassed and exhausted, his head pounding.

Mary offered an arm as she toted his bag. "Pretty bad. Can't blame you though. You made it longer than I would have." She grabbed his pills. "Mycroft really gave no explanation. Just wants you there. You up for this?"

John pulled away long enough to get his shoes on and then to take the bag from her. "I'm fine," he said in a hoarse whisper. He slung the bag on his back and moved to the door without looking back at her. "I'm sure he has a car waiting. You need sleep."

Mary held out his pills. "I- okay. Take these with you at least?" She noticed how terribly her hand was shaking and made a staunch effort to still the tremor, not wanting his focus on her.. "I'll- I'll sleep and go home. Call if you want to talk or yell... or if you need anything."

John took the bottle with no intention of taking the medication, shoving it in his pocket and walking out without another word, biting down on the urge to quip back at her. He was too tired, too strung out. 

There was a car waiting as he'd suspected. He climbed in and was totally silent on the drive, dozing off in the back before snapping awake when they arrived. 

It was late. He was being called in when visiting hours were closed. He wondered if he'd be allowed in as he swayed through the hallways, bracing on the wall now and again, stumbling like a drunk until he came to Sherlock's room. He knocked lightly on the doorframe, looking to Mycroft.

Mycroft moved to his feet. Sherlock had refused the sleeping pill and stared at the wall. "John. Come in, sit down. Please." He'd cleared the recliner in anticipation of John's arrival. A clean, nice quilt and a pillow just like John had at home sat beside the chair. 

John looked from the chair and back to Mycroft before moving over to Sherlock, still very unsteady on his feet. He dropped his bag and moved to Sherlock's side, frowning as he found him awake. He'd assumed Sherlock was sleeping. "Sherlock," he whispered softly, reaching down and taking Sherlock's hand. 

Sherlock's brow creased at John's touch and his hand fluttered. 

Mycroft's voice was quiet. "That's the most he's responded since his RT was here earlier. He won't speak to me or any of the doctors. I'm afraid you're likely our only hope. I know you're exhausted but-" Mycroft shook his head. "He just shut down on us. They decided not to move him because of it."

"He...he what?" John asked on a whisper, looking back to Sherlock. "Hey, Sherlock look at me," he said quietly, using his free hand to move Sherlock's face slightly, "come on now, look at me."

Molly patted Sherlock's knee. "Go on now. He's waiting for you." 

Sherlock stared out the window. "Mycroft will just take him away again." 

Molly shook her head. "Sherlock Holmes. You get out of your head and you talk to John!"

Sherlock startled and looked up at John, so accustomed to the spectre of him over their years of seperation that he’d not realized John was physically there. He took in a sharp, relieved breath. "You came back..." He leaned into John's hand.

John eased down into the chair Mycroft had...astoundingly...set up for him, still holding Sherlock's hand. 

“‘Course I did," he said quietly, already leaning back and closing his eyes. "I was upsetting you. I didn't want to upset you." 

Sherlock sighed with relief. "I just wanted you to rest. Can you rest?" His fingers twined with John's. Sherlock shifted to his side, "Tired. Will you rest with me? Please...if you would stay...that...that would be good."

Mycroft's phone buzzed with a text from Mary. 

_Just checking he made it in safe. Your doctor gave him pills to take if he needs them. Doubt he lets anyone know._

John was already well on his way to falling asleep as Sherlock spoke, pulling him back to awareness. He tightened his loosening grip on Sherlock's fingers and hummed, "Not leaving unless they have me out again."

Mycroft watched the men quietly, waiting a moment before replying to Mary. 

_He is here, does not look as though whatever he was given has worn off. Thank you for bringing his medication to my attention. Sherlock had stopped responding to us, he's talking now._

Sherlock's fingers squeezed John's. "Not letting them have you out." His voice was soft, fading out as he fell asleep clinging to John's hand.

Mary replied after a moment.

_Glad he's talking again. I'll be at the hotel til morning if anyone needs me. Then I will be home... Not that you'd need me or wouldn't know in any case, but there it is._

John was off asleep with Sherlock. Mycroft watched as their fingers slowly untwined, John's hand eventually going lax and falling back to his chair. Mycroft drew in a deep, slow breath and shook his head. Duty called, and he could no longer avoid returning to the office for at least a few hours. He walked out into the hallway and let the nurses station know he was leaving, but to call him if it became necessary.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Terribly sorry for the wait (and the uploaded and then deleted chapter. AO3 went so mad because we dropped a tag we had to start over. All is fixed within the chapter, we hope.)
> 
> Hopefully we are on the mend. As ever, your continued input is as much fun for us as the story hopefully is for you, and we deeply appreciate the feedback.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for your patience. Things are still very spotty here. I (Symphony) have done the best that I can with this chapter. But with ongoing issues for both of us... I wanted to get something out here for you all.

Mark was relieved to see John and Sherlock asleep the next morning. He did not wake Sherlock as he listened to him, carefully moving his stethoscope over Sherlock’s back before stepping away. He wrote on the whiteboard in the room for them to page for him when they were both awake before slipping out again, near silent.

John came awake on his own later that morning, body slow to come up to speed. He was curled on his side, pillow gripped close as he blinked into the room. He'd almost forgotten moving from the hotel to the hospital again. Sherlock breathed in and out as John watched. John’s mind was mostly settled and he felt a distinct lack of anything. It was a welcome change. A small part of his mind warned that he should be disturbed, but he couldn't find the strength to worry over it much.

Sherlock slept on, comforted by the knowledge that John was nearby. A nurse drifted in to check Sherlock's fluids. She nodded to John. "Welcome back Dr. Watson." She wrote down vitals, her voice quiet as she spoke to him, following orders in Sherlock’s chart put there by Mycroft to see to John as well, "Do you need anything?"

John shook his head and otherwise made no move to get up. He watched Sherlock sleeping before letting his own eyes fall closed. He was considering Mary, for the moment. Now that she’d been in his company, she was at the front of his mind. He felt nothing as he thought about what she'd done the night before. Why had she cared at all? She had known she'd destroy him, and had embraced it fully. Perhaps she was scared of Mycroft, and needed John to believe that she loved him for her safety. God, but that hurt. Only it didn't, not really. It registered as something that should hurt, set off little alarms along his mind, his heart twinging where he knew it would later feel the raw, aching sting of it. For now, there was nothing at all outside of detached thoughts on his own situation. 

Sherlock stirred almost an hour later. His gaze fell on John when he opened his eyes. He was so used to the spectre of John that it was a long time coming before he realized, through the lines etched deeper into the sides of John’s eyes and the crease of his forehead, that John was actually there. "Thought I dreamed you came back,” Sherlock whispered in open relief.

John slowly opened his eyes, looking at Sherlock. "Mycroft said you quit responding to them yesterday. Don't do that, yeah?" He was quiet, voice nearly monitione, detached and distant.

Sherlock flinched, mentally withdawing at John’s unexpected tone. He was vulnerable in John’s presence, laced in pain and medication, not understanding John’s detachment and deeply reacting to it. "Okay. I won't." He already had no intention of speaking to anyone unless he had to.

John stared at him, sensing he'd said something wrong, done something wrong. He swallowed and closed his eyes again, "I'm sorry, Sherlock. I don't know what's wrong with me. It's not you," he quietly attempted to explain, though still in that flat, detached way he seemed unable to shift. 

Sherlock nodded, "I missed you. It is… uncomfortable without you here." He watched John, the man who kept him grounded, who kept him straight. "I- my mind palace. I just went there while you were- away. I haven't been paying attention to them, had no interest in them."

John nodded, looking back at him. "Can't say that I blame you," he whispered, watching him, "think I'd likely do the same if I could. I missed you as well. It- it's difficult to be," he cleared his throat and closed his eyes, "yeah… alone, not a good thing for me. I guess she got scared, found me after searching on foot. I don't understand why. Had a..." he hummed and nodded to himself as he touched his lip, "was a bad night."

Sherlock responded without hesitation. "Because she loves you. She loves you so much she tried to protect you from everything." He closed his eyes for a moment. "Someone give you something? Sound detached." 

John hummed, "Yeah… yes. I wasn't eh, wasn't entirely… yeah they gave me something. I've pills in my pocket but I don't want them. No idea what the jab was." Still even and flat in his tone, not feeling anything at all. He finally opened his eyes and looked at Sherlock. "Why are you so convinced she loves me? Is she even capable of love? She's hardly fussed about any of this."

"I didn't fuss about you getting married." Sherlock pointed out as he sat up slowly, forcing his body up without the aid of the bed. "I know she loves you because I see her, John. She and I are more alike than I think even you would like to admit to yourself."

John didn't move. He shrugged and closed his eyes again, taking that information in as one would the weather report. "It's a bit different. You didn't shoot my wife. I'd like to believe you'd be a bit concerned over it, had you, but that might be foolish of me. I've misunderstood every aspect of my life thus far, apparently." He shifted, no feeling at all behind the words. His shoulder twinged and he frowned, pressing a hand over it.

The words slammed hard into Sherlock, wounding and unexpected. He’d gone to such lengths to protect John, only for the man to accuse him of indifference. He dragged in a deep breath and retreated abruptly into his mind, too afraid and unsettled to keep out where he could take another unexpected blow. 

Jim was waiting on him, playing with one of Sherlock’s childhood pirate ships he often had in the bath while sitting on the window ledge. "Bit dramatic again isn't it? Honestly, Sherlock. You've made poor Molly withdraw from you in here. Anger is bad for the blood pressure, love." 

Sherlock glared at him, nearly shaking with disquiet. "Shut up. I didn't ask for you to be here. Go back to your room if you can't leave me alone." 

Jim arched a brow and held up his hands, dramatically gesturing his retreat. "My, my, touchy aren't we?"

John was in something of a daze for nearly an hour after that, heavy and groggy despite the medication wearing off. The effects were lingering, and when combined with stress he hardly had a chance. He slowly realized that Sherlock had never responded to him. He cracked an eye open, noting with surprise that a good deal of time had passed. 

"I didn't mean to say that, Sherlock, I'm sorry."

Sherlock heard everything. He was staring out the window with Jim hovering nearby.

“Isn’t that sweet? He’s apologizing.”

Sherlock spun on Jim and screamed at him to shut up, effectively knocking himself out of his mind palace. He let out a heavy sigh and then winced. Sherlock hadn’t budged. His back and stomach ached from how he’d been sitting. He eased himself back down, carrying on as though the conversation had never lagged. “No, but were Mary not pregnant and our roles reversed? I would shoot her to protect you.”

John would have laughed had there been any emotion in him. He licked his lip and nodded, not trusting himself to respond. He was damned sick and tired of being 'protected.' He closed his eyes again and just focused on breathing. 

"I'm going home. I'm going back to Baker Street." Sherlock had made up his mind. He reached over and started turning off medicines. His hand shook as he started disconnecting the IV lines from the ports in his arms. Before John could stop him he'd pulled his feeding tube, gagging as he did, the movement brutal as he forced the thing free.

John shot out of the chair, yelling at Sherlock as he reached out and grabbed his hands, watching as a thick line of blood began to roll down his face from where he'd just torn the tube out without any sort of preparation, obviously tearing the soft mucosa lining with the yanking he’d done. "Stop! Jesus, Sherlock what the hell are you doing! Stop!" 

He growled as he pressed the call button, eyes glued to Sherlock as he held him down, fingers wrapped to the thrumming pulses at his wrists since the machines were no longer monitoring him. "Sherlock, keep looking at me. Keep looking right at me," he instructed, forcing the fear away as he held on to him. "Don't close your eyes." 

Nurses poured into the room with the crash team behind them at Sherlock's 'code' and John's press of the button. The crash team ducked back out almost as soon as they came. A nurse demanding to know what was going on as she tried to get to the monitors. 

Sherlock glared at all of them but refused to speak, shutting back down and staring at the wall again.

"He just started pulling things, wants to go home. Sherlock, look at me," John demanded, tired and in no mood to play 'Sherlock in a Strop,' at the moment. His own heart was hammering against his ribs as the monitors kicked back on. "Hey, don't do that. You've been in your head plenty, stay out here with me. Stop that." 

He let go of one of Sherlock's wrists to press gauze to his heavily bleeding nose, turning Sherlock's head and angling him up so that he wouldn't swallow it. "He just ripped that NG tube out as it was, anchor and all."

The nurse snapped at someone to get Walthers in the room. "Well, he should be glad he didn't get to his catheter before you got to him." She traced lines shaking her head as she connected him again.

Soon Sherlock was hooked back up to everything but the NG tube. Sherlock narrowed his eyes and looked to John. He did not speak but he was present as he watched.

John was careful as he put his hands on either side of Sherlock's face and spoke, his Pashto for privacy firm, unyeilding while he held Sherlock's eye. "You just scared the daylights out of me. I know you are bored and you want to go home. God help me, my goal here is to get you back to Baker Street whole and sound as I possibly can. Don't do that to me again." He stopped speaking but did not look away as he heard Mark's voice somewhere down the hall. 

Sherlock's jaw tightened. For a moment it looked as though he'd explode into a full blown temper tantrum. His shoulders slumped in exhaustion. It had taken far more out of him than he thought it would to yank everything out. His nose hurt like hell. Sherlock's voice was quiet, Pashto in return. "Wasn't meant to scare you. Just want to go home. Don't care, don't want to be here."

"Sherlock," Mark said as he walked in, fully apprised of the situation and watching as one of the nurses was back at setting him right, "I hear we've had a bit of trouble today." 

John did not move from his position, still holding Sherlock's face between his hands, eyes jumping back and forth between Sherlock's as he tried to digest the _don't care_ bit of all that. 

Sherlock did not respond to Mark at all. He kept his eyes on John. His Pashto was quiet. "I want to go home. I just want to go home. I'm so tired of being in here. Mycroft took you away and I'm scared he will again. He can't keep you out of Baker Street. It's mine. Not his."

Mark decided to simply work around the men for the time being as they spoke in a language that clearly indicated their want of privacy. He checked over the readings and took a manual set of vitals as best he could without getting between them. 

John closed his eyes and shook his head. "Mycroft had me taken out of here because I'm no good for you, he hasn't banned me from returning. I was drugged into a stupor last night, or I'd have been here sooner. I'm… I'll take the damned pills if they will help. I'll not give them a reason for me to be removed."

Sherlock swore at Mark in French, the shift in demeanor swift and near violent. He shied back from the doctor, eyes narrowed. Sherlock's voice was urgent, Pashto again, "I want to go home, I'm never going to get better. This is just going to go on and on forever." There was desperation in his voice. Sherlock's mind was turning on him and the results were becoming obvious.

Mark physically stepped back as Sherlock's disposition shifted, putting his hands up toward him in a move of supplication, speaking softly, "Easy, Sherlock. It's just me."

John's brows came down, wrinkling his forehead as he watche the strange shift in Sherlock's behavior. "Hey," he whispered softly, pulling them back to English, "Hey, calm down. Look at me, Sherlock. Calm down."

Sherlock looked at John. His voice was quiet, haunted, but English once more. "It's just more torture. More decisions I have no say in, more people doing things to my body I can't control..." He looked down. Sherlock's chin quivered as his brain betrayed him. He was back in that room, needles in his arm again, Borovic demanding his name.

_“I would if I could. I’m dead.” Sherlock decided edging the truth would be best. His voice cracked on the words. “Borovic, take them out. Take them out!” His chest rose and fell in sharp movements as he tried to breathe through the pain. He could only gasp at it though._

“I will leave them for,” he tipped his watch, noting the time, “another ten minutes. After that the flesh will begin to properly cook and that is not what I’m after. Your name, ghost, tell me your name.” He spoke to him, at ease with the situation, unresponsive to Sherlock’s distress. He was neither enjoying Sherlock’s pain, nor sympathetic to it.

Sherlock closed his eyes. John was sacrosanct. John must be protected at all costs. Two more minutes passed before Sherlock began rattling the chains in earnest, begging to be freed from the needles. He tried to hold his tongue against the the barrage of pleas in different languages.

John watched Sherlock for a few more seconds before holding up a hand to Mark, indicating that he should be quiet. He cleared his throat and spoke quietly, one hand carding through Sherlock's hair once. "You have control over what happens to you, Sherlock. You are conscious and communicative. You can say no. That's your right. I'm just selfish enough to beg you not to do this. Look at me, Sherlock."

Sherlock whimpered as he focused on John again. "Needles. God, the needles. They burned. I'm trying. I'm trying. It's- I..." He closed his eyes. "I'm sorry."

John had no idea what Sherlock was on about. He sat there, watching him, recognizing the signs of acute stress without needing to be told what was happening to Sherlock. 

_Needles. They burned._

John suddenly turned Sherlock's arm, taking in the scar tissue there that he'd had glimpses of, only to watch Sherlock notice him looking and move out of view. John had known there was a burn there, though not how bad and he'd not dug after information. Now he stopped and moved the sleeve of the gown out of the way, really looking at the large area of mottled skin. _Needles. They burned._

He felt the color drain from his face as he looked at Sherlock again, nodding swiftly. "Hey. Look at me. This isn't… this isn't that, okay? No one is trying to hurt you, no one wants you hurting. This isn't...it's not there, Sherlock. It's not there."

Sherlock looked at John, tears stinging his eyes. "I was gone for so long and- and I wanted to come home so much. It took so long and now I'm home and I can't go home again, they won't let me. They won't let me go and they keep hurting me, John. They keep hurting me and everyone lets them." 

Mark stood back, observing, listening closely to what was being said. This was... unexpected, though he could see where someone who'd recently been tortured would make the connection. He'd have to put in a word with psych. 

John shook his head and set his jaw for a moment as he collected himself. "It's to help you, Sherlock. Pneumonia hurts, I know it hurts, but this is to help you. If you go home now...Christ, Sherlock, you might… it could kill you."

Sherlock sniffled and nodded. "Okay. Okay. I'll. I'll let them. I won't fuss. I won't fight. I just want to get better. I just want to be better and go home. I'm sorry. I-I'm sorry." He looked to Mark and looked away again. "I'm sorry." Sherlock was almost trembling as he sat in the bed.

John looked over to Mark before looking back to Sherlock. This was… not what he'd expected. Sherlock was never, ever docile in matters he did not like or agree with. 

Mark cleared his throat. "Sherlock, I am going to give you a sedative, put you to sleep for a little while. We need to replace that tube, and it's not going to be comfortable. Will you let me put you to sleep?"

Sherlock clutched at John,"I- John, please." He whimpered in fear but nodded. "O-okay." Terror was written in Sherlock's eyes as he clung to John. "I'm sorry. I'm _sorry_."

John's eyes went wide as Sherlock grabbed him. He wrapped his arms around him, speaking softly as Mark went about drawing up the sedative. "Hey… it's alright, yeah? We all have bad days, it's okay. Breathe, Sherlock, just… just breathe. Everything is alright." 

Mark moved swift and quiet, slipping the needle into Sherlock's line high up on the clear tubing to keep out of Sherlock's line of sight. He pushed it slowly, keeping an eye on Sherlock's heart rate, intent on dropping him down hard. 

John felt Sherlock growing heavy as he held on to him. "You're safe. Okay? You're safe. Just relax… breathe."

Sherlock whimpered as his head grew heavy. "No- don't. _Please_." His eyes closed as his fingers slipped from their grasp on John. 

Jim arched a brow as he looked up from his paper. "This is unexpected. They _drugged_ you." 

Sherlock stared at Jim before he stalked straight past him to a window seat. He curled up on the cushion there, staring out the window.

John eased Sherlock back down to the bed and sat back, dragging his hands down his face. He slowly got up and moved back to his chair, not saying a word to Mark as he pulled out his phone, ready to text Mycroft. 

_Sherlock thought_

He clicked his tongue and deleted it, thinking better of it. What good would it do? Hopefully Sherlock had just grown tired and confused, surely he'd be better off next he woke. 

Mark shook his head as he looked in Sherlock's nose. He took a few minutes looking before he nodded to the nurse assisting him. They threaded the tube down the other side of Sherlock's nose. When they were finished he spoke to John. "I'm going to put a call into psych and I'm- if he doesn't start eating enough, or at least drinking enough of the replacement shakes in a few days, I'm going to put in a call for a permanent tube. But I'd recommend the PEG. Easy in and out. I think he's healed enough for it not to be a problem at this point."

"No, to both of those options. No. He's...let's not scar him further. He'll eat. He wanted to eat. And psych will have no damned idea what to do with him," John shook his head, staring at Sherlock. 

"No just...he won't talk to psych, he won't. It will only shut him down more. I should have grabbed him faster, I didn't think he'd legitimately hurt himself. Dropped the ball, there." 

He drew in a slow, deep breath and shook his head, his tone flat and resigned. "Maybe he just needs to sleep."

Mark blinked at John, "This isn't your fault. Look, he'll be down several hours. Try and get some more rest?" He ran a hand over his face. "PEG would barely scar, but you have medical control." He held up his hands. "I'll get them to bring him some real lunch when he wakes. Soft foods, but real food."

Sherlock was so damned vain that John was sure it would bother him anyhow. He nodded at Mark and eased back in his chair, watching Sherlock closely for a little while, openly worried. That had been incredibly unexpected. He pulled out his phone and sent a text to Mycroft.

_What was Sherlock's condition when you got him back?_

Mycroft paused at the text and frowned. He sighed as he responded.

_Poor. He was savagely beaten for a month. He spoke to you as though you stood beside him and he was terrified of the doctor who treated him. He seemed to move past it with the relative ease Sherlock takes on anything with._

John nodded at that, having to read the text several times before he could square that away in his mind. He drew in a slow, deep breath, grinding his teeth. Sherlock had been beaten for a month. He'd come to John with a silly face and a supposed light heart, and underneath his reality was a dark bloody horror show.

John pressed a hand over his face as he forced himself to breathe slowly. Christ… _Christ_. It took him five minutes before he could manage a response. 

_He's not past it._

Mycroft swore and Anthea looked up. "Sherlock- Serbia." She nodded and started looking through information on the tablet she had in her hands.

_Other than looking into MI6 level psychiatrists, do you suggest anything?_

John laughed as he read the text, shaking his head.

_If I had any suggestions for this sort of thing, I'd not have needed Sherlock's four am concerts._

He'd so deeply missed that comfort when Sherlock had died...gone...whatever. It had been...indescribably horrific for quite some time. And then Mary had come along and he'd slept a solid eight hours the first night she stayed in his bed. His heart twinged in the echo of loss, too numb to properly feel it. He stared at Sherlock and then added,

_He had to be sedated. He tore out… nearly everything. He's under right now._

Mycroft swore again and closed his eyes. "Anthea, I want a player and all of Sherlock's favorite performances sent with it."

_Sending music. Do you need me to come?_

John shrugged to himself, curling on his side and laying out as much as he could, wrapped up in the quilt. 

_He's sedated. I'm fine. If you want to come, you are welcome to._

Mycroft looked at the insanity on his desk and the mounting problems. 

_Tell me how he is when he wakes. Things here are- tenuous at the moment._

John set his phone down and wrapped his arms around himself. He tucked down into the bedding, closing his eyes, numb but no longer comfortably. He willed himself to sleep, not having too much difficulty getting there on his own. 

One of Mycroft's minions showed up less than a half hour later. An MP3 player was hooked to a small set of speakers and a list of all of Sherlock's favored pieces in their favored performances started. The minion slipped back out without disturbing either man.

John cracked an eye open when the man in the sharp suit and coiled earbud walked in, watching and then closing his eyes again as the music began to play. He wasn't a threat, everything was fine. He faded back into the doze he'd been flirting with for a while, getting at least the shadow of rest that way. 

Sherlock had not moved from his place in the window seat for hours. 

"It's amazing. You can throw a strop even in here." Jim chuckled as he turned a page on the paper. "Quit sulking, Sherlock. So you had a bit of a setback with your PTSD. Be logical. It was going to happen. Even you are not magic." 

Sherlock's jaw worked. 

Jim was startled by the pillow slamming into the paper in his hands. "Honestly, childish."

Sherlock threw himself off the window seat in a strop and stalked right out the front door of his mind palace. He opened his eyes to look around the room. His favorite performance of Bach's Chaconne filled his ears. Mycroft... only he knew Sherlock preferred this performance. 

John was still dozing as Sherlock opened his eyes. 

Mark had just walked into the room when Sherlock woke. He took his time looking up at Sherlock's monitors and then back to Sherlock himself. "Hello," he said gently, wondering if they should have put Sherlock in restraints despite John's insistence not to. "Back with us, Sherlock?"

Sherlock's eyes narrowed but after glaring at Mark for a minute he nodded. There was a wince when his hand went to his nose. "I was eating. You didn't have to put this back in."

Mark shook his head and spoke softly, "Not the only reason for the tube. Keeps you from aspirating, lets me get food into you when you can't, good for medications if you can't manage them, all that good stuff. It's better to have it and not need it." 

John finally opened his eyes, inhaling as he listened to Mark's voice. Sherlock was awake then. He shifted so that he could see him. "Hey… you back?"

Sherlock looked to John, his voice was soft, "I'm sorry. It was- I was back there." He looked down to the blanket, worlds away from the near hostile man he'd been with Mark only moments before. "I don't want you to leave. I'm sorry."

John slowly pushed the elevated footrest down, getting up and looking at Mark. "A minute, if you wouldn't mind." 

Mark nodded without hesitation, happy to let them be, closing the door softly behind him. John turned back to Sherlock and lowered the railing closest to him, hitching a hip up on the mattress and picking up Sherlock's hand. He sat with his back to Sherlock's side, Sherlock's hand resting between both of his in his lap. When he spoke, tracing the lines of Sherlock's knuckles, his voice was soft and flat, hardly fluctuating. 

"I'm not angry with you, Sherlock. You've nothing to be sorry for. When it gets...bad like that...there really isn't much you can do. I'm not leaving."

"Sometimes I can't tell. I don't know. You were there, through it all. The only difference is you speak English here. I- even there I could feel you touch me sometimes. My hallucinations were strong. I haven't- haven't shown you." Sherlock took a deep breath and peeled up the robe until his chest was fully exposed to John for the first time since he'd come home.

Shame burned through Sherlock as the long diagonal scar was revealed. "I couldn't stop him. I wasn't strong enough."

John's focus lingered on Sherlock's chest for a long time. That was done with a blade, in poor condition, early on and left to fester. The edges were clean enough that it could have easily been stitched. John reached out slowly and traced a finger along the angriest edge of the scar, his teeth starting to hurt with how terribly he was clenching his jaw. 

When he finally spoke, his voice was tight and angry. "This is not your fault. Mycroft told me a little about what happened. This wasn't your fault, Sherlock. You've… this isn't your fault. Has nothing to do with strength."

Sherlock took a slow breath. "I feel like I have no control here. It feels the same sometimes. Like I'm being tortured, only this time I don't know _why_. At least then I knew _why_." He looked up at John. "I've done nothing but turn your life upside down since the moment I met you... and God help you, you've loved most of it. Up until all... that."

He looked away again, "I hate that I hurt you. I loathe it."

John cleared his throat and helped Sherlock pull the gown back down into place, easing him back. "Well, you've been outdone, I think," he said quietly, tucking the blankets around Sherlock in a bid to do anything helpful at all. 

"When you met me… turning my pathetic life upside down was the most brilliant thing you could have done. And you did. A day after knowing you, I could walk properly again. I wasn't alone. I had a purpose." He was still speaking in that steady, detached way, the words would have typically been painful.

"All that left when you did. All of it. And then she walked in and I had the chance to maybe… maybe be something to someone again. I fell for it. Human error. You're always right. Always your way. I don't know what I was… what could I have possibly been expecting? You were the only person who could stomach flatsharing with me, and I _honestly thought_..." he clipped off and scrubbed a hand over his eyes.

"Sorry, I'm sorry. That's not what you need to hear. Flashbacks are normal, Sherlock, as is the confusion. It will slow with time and… distraction. It will never go away, but it will calm down."

Sherlock wrapped his hand around one of John's. He fell quiet as they sat there. His grip on John's hand tightened as though he were terrified John would get up and walk out the door. He kept his breathing slow and even only speaking after long moments of silence, "I would like to get better and go home."

John squeezed Sherlock's hand and nodded. "Yeah I… that's the goal here, Sherlock. You will. Just put your body through too much. Not that you chose this, you didn't. You're going to be okay. Are you hungry? Can I do anything for you?"

"Hungry. I'd like to eat." Sherlock looked up at him, "Just don't leave me? You obviously have other responsibilities... I'm not denying you those. I'm terribly lonely and bored in here."

John nodded and eased off the side of the bed, putting the railing back as it had been. He walked out into the hallway and asked a nurse to bring Sherlock food, returning shortly after. He pulled the quilt off the chair and folded it, setting it and his pillow aside now that they were up. "I can put on crap telly for you," he offered numbly. 

Sherlock sighed, "No, it's alright." He curled onto his side and drew the covers up over himself, tucking them to just beneath his chin. His eyes closed as he tried to actively stay out of his mind palace. Sherlock needed to stay aware and present, lest they do something else he didn't want.

"I can bring in a book, or your tablet. You… you're still stressed. Of course you're stressed but you..." he cleared his throat and sat down next to Sherlock's bed, reaching out and putting a hand on his shoulder just for a moment. "Talk to me about it. Tell me. You're upset."

Sherlock opened his eyes to look at John. His brow furrowed as he tried to find the words. "I am lost, John. I am exhausted in every way imaginable and so are you. Both of us are numb and overwhelmed and I don't know what to do about it. I don't have the answers. All I want to do is retreat to my mind palace and pretend the outside world doesn't exist. I care about you and all I have done over the past two years is hurt you."

John sat there, struggling for words for the moment. Several long minutes later, John licked his lip and nodded. "I- I understand," he said roughly, not quite meeting Sherlock's eye. "I'd...yeah I'd likely do the same if I could. You-" his voice caught and he cleared his throat again, "don't have to ah, I want you to do what helps you. You don't have to… stay. If the palace thing helps, then do that. I just- I'm here, if you… I'm here." 

He looked down at his hands, viciously biting down on the inside of his lip though outwardly remaining placid. 

Sherlock let out a pained noise. "What I want is you up here with me, talking to me, or just resting with me. I want you close, I want your fingers twined with mine. I want to tell the rest of the world to piss off and leave me alone. I just want you."

John closed his eyes and nodded. It was all so unfair, he could feel the scream just under his chin, begging to be loosed. He exhaled slowly and opened his eyes, the bloody _sting_ of it breaking through the numbed haze. "I..." He looked away, dragging in another deep breath, working the fingers of his left hand to keep them from shaking.

"I made a mistake, and I'm...I've got to live with what I've done. I...I don't know what's going to happen, Sherlock. There's… it's deeply unfair to you. How can I..." what was he to do? Allow this indulgence for himself here, and then what? What of his wife, his child? What happens to Sherlock while he's trying to sort out what to do with his catastrophe of an existence?

For a fleeting moment he thought of the Browning, tightly secured in his drawer. It would likely be the most- John shook the thought away and stood up, moving closer to Sherlock, reaching down and taking his hand. "I'm sorry I'm such a fool. I was meant to be alone, always have been. I… if I'd just accepted..." he trailed off as the pad of his thumb worked over Sherlock's knuckles. 

Sherlock shook his head, "You aren't meant to be alone. You aren't. You love her. You're going to have a child and it's going to love you." 

He looked up at John. "I don't expect you to leave her. I don't- that's not what this is. I just want you back on cases with me sometimes. I want a stolen moment here or there on the sofa, just us, together, sitting there, hands twined together. I don't want to hurt her or you. I-" He took in a slow breath. "I just want to be a part of your life."

"I loved who she pretended to be. I don't know who she is. She… this is how much she cares for me," he said quietly, gesturing to Sherlock's wound. Despite his upset, John simply began to move, crawling up on the bed beside Sherlock and shifting so that his head was higher on the pillow. He reached over and gently pulled Sherlock to him, resting Sherlock's head over his heart, fingers sliding through Sherlock's mussed curls. 

"I'm not leaving you. I don't know what will happen with her but I'm not leaving you. I'm not. You are solidly secured as part of my life."

Sherlock wrapped his arm around John's waist. He closed his eyes as he relaxed, tension melting out of him almost as soon as John had him. His breathing stuttered for a moment before evening out. Sherlock tucked his face against John, unable to speak. He pressed close, thumb tracing circles on John's hip. It took him most of five minutes to find his voice. "That's all I want. I just want to be part of your life in any way that I can."

John closed his eyes, no idea what to do with himself. He swallowed hard around the lump in his throat and tried to relax, his heart racing away in his chest. Sherlock with him like this was… wonderful and deeply troubling. He drew in a sharp breath and tried to keep himself calm, knowing that he should speak, entirely unable to do so.

Sherlock was comforted by John's presence. Soon he found his eyes growing heavy. He murmured sleepily against John and nuzzled in against him. He dozed against John.

A nurse came in and put a tray for Sherlock on the table. She nodded to John and slipped back out.

Sherlock was more relaxed than he had been since he'd been put back in hospital.

John waited another half hour before waking Sherlock. "Hey," he whispered, rubbing Sherlock's back gently, "Sherlock, wake up for me. You've got to eat." 

He felt the threat of panic still trying to claw its way out of his chest, tense and feeling slightly ill. He slid his palm over Sherlock's head and gave him a gentle nudge. "Sherlock."

Sherlock grumbled and tucked his head down against John's chest more. "Has Lestrade got a case for me? Not moving if he doesn't" He huffed at John, hand tightening on his hip. Sherlock's head came up a minute later. "Hospital, not home, damn it."

"First step to getting home is eating. Well, no, first step was breathing. Second step is eating. Up with you, you have to eat." He scrubbed a shaking hand over his eyes and stretched out, trying to get comfortable again. 

Sherlock grumbled as he sat up. He dragged the tray toward him and stared down at it. Sherlock started with the creamed potatoes. His nose wrinkled before he moved on to the tinned fruit. He let out a small sound of pleasure at having the fruit to eat.

John shifted to the side, sitting up and crossing his legs. He watched as Sherlock picked at his food, incredibly relieved to see him eating. He scrubbed a hand through his own hair, trying to smooth it down and clean it up. His focus set on the small bottle of pills beside his chair, and he wondered if he should just accept a bit of help in that form. 

“How’s that sitting?” He asked after a few minutes of Sherlock eating, bumping his shoulder very gently against Sherlock’s.

Sherlock gave a small smile. “Rather well. Full though. Most of a fruit cup and I’m full.” He shook his head. “It’s worse than if I were on a case.” He did sip at the meal replacement drink. “Foul. The chocolate is better than this vanilla offal.”

John laughed at that, shaking his head in amusement. “We’ll get you the chocolate one next time. I fully agree with you, the vanilla is a bit stomach-turning.” He touched Sherlock’s back gently and went quiet for a minute. “Don’t keep at it if you are full, you’ve still got a tube in to help with that. You’ve not been eating for a long time, I’m not surprised.”

He leaned over and pushed the tray back for Sherlock, enough to get it out of his face, not so far that he couldn’t reach it if he wanted. “Don’t push yourself too hard.”

Sherlock abandoned the drink and the tray. “You, John Watson, make a surprisingly good pillow.” His mouth drew up in the corner, a half smile ghosting over his lips. “How are you feeling?” Sherlock leaned into him with light pressure, glad of the contact.

John’s brows rose at the question. How was he feeling, indeed. He slid an arm properly behind Sherlock’s back and drew him in closer, humming quietly. “Likely better than you are,” he hedged, brushing an errant curl away from Sherlock’s face.

Sherlock closed his eyes for a moment at the touch. His voice was soft when he looked at John. “I’m feeling better. Physically it’s still somewhat of a crapshoot. But mentally, emotionally, much better.” He swallowed and then leaned in before he lost his nerve. The kiss was to John’s cheek, a brush of his lips more than anything else.

John closed his eyes as his heart turned over in his chest, remaining exactly as he was, neither retreating nor leaning into him. He slowly reached up, covering the area on his cheek that Sherlock had just kissed, holding his fingers there as he exhaled unsteadily. He was still for a moment before he leaned into Sherlock, nodding at what he’d said. 

“Any-” his voice nearly squeaked on him, forcing him to clear his throat, “any improvement is good news. I’m glad it’s easing at least a little.” 

Sherlock leaned with equal force as he let his head rest against John’s. “Mycroft- the music, it had to have been him. He’s dug deep, looking for all the performances I love best.” Sherlock’s voice was a low rumble between the two of them. “Four AM violin concerts?”

John hummed, nodding. “The four AM concerts.” He slid his arm down, trying to better support Sherlock. “I ah, I wasn’t sure if you were going to be aware when you woke up. Tried to… had to understand what was going on. I mean, I recognized- I just didn’t understand Serbia. I do now, we can work with it now. Mycroft though… music was all him.” 

Sherlock nodded against John as his hand wrapped in John’s shirt. “Thank you. I don’t know anyone else to talk to about it. I would have, when I got back, but you needed time. You needed to be angry at me. It- You kept me company. I know it sounds stupid, but you’ve been with me every step of the way.”

John nodded, looking down at his lap as he forced himself to stay quiet. “She knew you were falling apart when I didn’t see it. Then I saw it, and I chalked it up to bloody Wedding Nerves, when you were not even the one getting married. I don’t know how I… it… was difficult to look at you for a while. I wasn’t paying attention. Too focused on everything in my own head.” 

He slowly drew in a deep breath and let it out over several seconds. “I’m… yeah, I’m always here if you want to talk, okay?”

“Okay.” Sherlock nodded and pressed his face down against John’s shoulder more. “Thank you, John. For everything.” His body relaxed into John as they sat there. “I missed you, missed you on cases with me.”

John nodded, tipping his cheek to the side of Sherlock’s head. “I missed you.” He set his jaw, focusing on keeping his composure in the face of overwhelming want to wrap up around Sherlock and never let the man go. It had been… the last month had pushed him beyond measure. “You should probably sleep.”

Sherlock let out a sigh, “I should. I know I should.” His grip tightened in John’s shirt. “I don’t want to let you go. I’m terrified I’ll wake up back in that cell, back without you.” He tensed at the thought as he tucked closer to John.

John rubbed his hand over Sherlock’s back. There had been plenty of nights that he’d faced in a similar fashion. “You know,” he said gently as he began to ease them back, reclining himself against the elevated head of Sherlock’s bed, easing Sherlock to his chest, “those nights I’d claim insomnia and mill about making tea and basically following you around,” he smiled at the memory, “irritating the hell out of you with how close I’d get while you were working, they were these nights. I was too… stubborn to tell you what was wrong. I was afraid, and you… you’d play for me or you were just there… and it helped.” 

He wrapped Sherlock as close to himself as he could. “You’re going to sleep, and I’ve got watch. Alright?”

Sherlock clung to John, face nuzzling down against his chest. The tension eased back out of his body as they curled together on the small bed. He nodded, voice quiet, “Thank you. You don’t know how much-” Sherlock took in a shaking breath. “You don’t know how much I need you.” His hands were curled, one at John’s side, one at his hip, in the materials clothing John. He was already starting to drift of, eyes closing.

John spent the next few minutes struggling to keep his own breathing in check. He leaned into Sherlock as much as he could without hurting him, keeping him in a desperately tight grip, breathing him in. It was an action that would have made him wildly uncomfortable at one point in his life, when he was so sure what was what and who was who. 

All of that could fuck right off. He was not about to pass on the opportunity to find a bit of comfort in this terribly complicated situation. He did as he promised, staying put, keeping his eyes open even though he knew there was no threat, ready to wake Sherlock at the first sign of trouble. 

Sherlock slept better than he had without the aid of drugs since he’d come home from Serbia. Mark came in about a half hour after Sherlock fell asleep. He nodded to John and with gentle movements, listened to Sherlock breathe without waking him. His voice was quiet. “Cho is happy with how he’s getting rid of the pneumonia. How’s he doing?”

John spoke as softly as he could manage. “He ate the fruit and drank the shake. Chocolate from now on, please. He’s been lucid, just… new to managing this sort of… difficulty. He’s… I think he’s doing as well as he can be.”

Mark nodded. “Alright, just page if you need me. Maybe tomorrow we’ll attempt to move him. He’ll still be in ICU John, just not this one.”

John nodded, not particularly liking that idea, though he wasn’t sure if he’d ever trust this enough to feel safe. If the entire rest of the team was on board, then so was he. “I’m just going to let him sleep. He just needs sleep.”

“Okay.” Mark watched the two of them for a minute before he stepped back out. He didn’t quite know what to do with either of them. He shook his head as he moved off to chart, thoroughly disliking the way things were going in some respects.

John held onto Sherlock while he rested, careful attention to him in anticipation of dreams, pleased with how soundly he’d rested thus far. He drew in a slow breath when he realized his own breathing was getting out of control, and otherwise was still and quiet with him.


	14. Chapter 14

Sherlock slept without shift for two hours. He was slow coming up from dreamless sleep. His eyes opened and he was immediately comforted by the fact that John was warm beside him. It had not been phantom smell or feel. He closed his eyes again with a sigh of relief.

“Two hours,” John reported in a low, calm tone for Sherlock’s benefit. “You managed two hours. Mark came in to see you, I suppose they are ready to step down your care, move you to a less intensive portion of the ICU. How are you feeling?”

Sherlock hummed at that. “What do you think? You’re tense, not overly so, but there’s an underlying tension when you talk about it. You don’t want me to move. It frightens you.” He talked it through aloud, reading John’s body beneath him. “Chest aches less, still coughing some, still feel like there’s phlegm in there. But I feel better than I have.”

“I’m not your attending for a reason,” John answered, voice soft as he kept his breathing slow and deep.

“Your whole team thinks it’s fine, and I’ve no solid reason not to.” It was a strange position to be in, doubting even his ability to be a sound physician. He’d treated men in compromising conditions that were close to him for years. This had never been an issue before. “It’s good news. It is. I- I am fine, just tired perhaps.”

Sherlock leaned up, tipping his head against John’s for a moment. “You should rest. You should curl up and rest. I’ll keep watch.” His voice held no mirth as he spoke. Sherlock meant to keep John safe from anything that might come to harm him.

John exhaled slowly and nodded. “Yeah I- alright. Don’t stay up on my account though, Sherlock. You’ve got to sleep when you’re tired. If I’m still..resting, just wake me.” He let his eyes drift closed, quite sure sleep was not going to happen, though he’d give it a try. 

Sherlock’s hand found John’s hair, letting his fingers trail through it. He stroked John’s hair as they rested there, curled together. Since he couldn’t sing for John yet, he hummed. The sound of his humming took over as he turned off the music and Sherlock kept everything low and gentle for the man in his arms.

John managed consciousness for nearly five minutes after Sherlock started up, no choice but to relax under Sherlock’s fingers. The movement across his scalp soothed nerves that he’d not even realized ached, and he was soon snoring low and quiet on the pillow beside Sherlock, one hand still wrapped tight around Sherlock’s wrist. He went down hard, desperately needing rest, his body craving natural sleep. 

Sherlock would resume his ministrations anytime John stirred, which was rare. He drifted between times of waking, dozing and clinging to John. He was acutely aware of John even as he slept, any irregular movement or faster breath analyzed before his body pushed him all the way awake again. He soothed John and pressed a kiss to his brow.

When John finally woke up, it was the calmest moment he’d experienced in years. He became aware of his surroundings before he opened his eyes, intentionally keeping them closed in an effort to draw out the moment. Sherlock’s heart was steady and his breathing clearer than John had heard it in a while, adding to the soothing calm. 

“I’d not intended to sleep so long,” he said quietly, tucking further in against Sherlock’s side. 

Sherlock smiled, voice quiet, “Afraid I had a hand in that. Any time you came up at all, I tried to lull you back to sleep.” He nuzzled close, not letting John go. The moment could have only been better if they’d been waking at Baker Street.

John made no effort to draw away, comfortable and warm, eyes still closed. “You succeeded,” John said fondly, still heavy and with sleep. His mind began to wander and he tensed for a moment, thinking of Mary, exhaling slowly and trying to make his damned head shut up so that he could relax. He pressed in closer to Sherlock, tipping his face down in an effort to hide his eyes. 

Sherlock pressed a drowsy kiss to John’s temple. His hand found John’s hair again and his fingers stroked through it, movements slow and tender. He wasn’t fully awake yet, just soaking up being there with John.

Sherlock’s fingers sliding along his scalp managed to do the trick, effectively giving him a point of focus. He set his mind to the movement, focusing on the feel of it instead of his more weighty concerns. It was… oddly _not_ odd to be like this with Sherlock. He knew where he stood with this man, at the least, and if there was anyone he was safe with, it was him. Each breath was longer and drawn out as he settled in the warmth of the moment, quiet and still for the first time in ages. 

Sherlock was happy in that moment. Happier than he could remember being in- he couldn’t actually remember being that happy and at ease in his adult life. He was floating, still and enjoyable. His eyes drifted closed again, almost dozing.

Another hour stretched as Sherlock and John indulged in the rare peace before it was disrupted. Mark came in quietly, calling out to John to get his attention. John drew in a deep breath in resignation, not really sleeping anymore, just enjoying the stillness. He turned and looked to the man, humming in question. 

Mark moved closer, looking at Sherlock’s monitor. “We need the room... I know,” he put his hands out as John looked about to protest, “I hate to push you out, but yours is the only possible room and it’s urgently needed.” 

John nodded, accepting that reality was going to be what it was going to be, gently pulling away from Sherlock so that he could begin gathering their things. 

“Sherlock is doing very well. I’ve no doubt this is safe,” Mark said to the pair of them, “I’ll be back in ten minutes to help make sure your transition is smooth.” That wasn’t typical protocol, but after all of this with these men, Mark was more than willing to do what he could to set them at ease. 

John nodded as his stomach sank, exhaling through subtly pursed lips as he began folding up their things and moving them into bags, taking note of where all their chargers and electronics were for easy access, tension swiftly rearing its head as he moved. 

Sherlock grumbled. “You and I- when I get out of here. You are sleeping with me in my bed. It’s not a bloody proposition. It’s a demand.” His voice was petulant as he sat up. “Best sleep I’ve had in years. You are comfortable.”

He looked around, “And I want this damned catheter _out_. I am perfectly capable of urinating on my own.”

John looked over at him, bag still in his hand, his attention effectively dragged away from the exponential worry he’d been entertaining seconds before hand. He stared at Sherlock for a moment before quirking up his lip. “Am I comfortable? You decidedly are.” There was no sense carrying on as though they’d not just had the calmest sleep he’d got since… forever. 

He finished up the packing just as Mark returned with several nurses. “We are going to just untether you here and move you, put you back up on the monitors in the new room. Going to give you a bit of morphine before we start shifting you around, if that’s alright.”

“You are going to take this bloody catheter out soon.” Sherlock huffed at Mark. “I am a grown man. I learnt how to use the toilet some number of years ago. Thank you.” His hands twitched in the way they tended to when he was fixating on something.

Mark nodded, “That’s fine, Sherlock, we can do that now if you’d like. You can manage in one way or another without it, I’m sure.” 

John stood back, close to Sherlock but letting him vocalize what he wanted done and Mark to field the ‘yay or nay’ angle. He closed his eyes for a moment, wrestling with panic that honestly had no logic to pair with it. He was just afraid, and the ICU had been a fantastic safety net for him, mentally. 

Sherlock nodded. “Please. I’d like to be untethered. It’s a very uncomfortable sensation. Nothing painful, just-” He waved a hand and shook his head. “One less tube sounds fantastic.”

John went ahead of Sherlock with one of the nurses, taking the short walk down the hall to give Sherlock his privacy and get things somewhat situated ahead of time. It wasn’t far, and it had a better view and more space to move about, in addition to better privacy than the all glass walls and curtains. 

Mark looked Sherlock over as the nursing team gave him a boost of morphine and discontinued the catheter, deftly removing it in a matter of minutes. John had left a pair of pants and night trousers, along with his shirt and newer dressing gown. Mark held them out, “Would you rather be in clothes? We can work around your leads and drip lines.”

“Oh god yes. I am so bloody sick of this gown.” Sherlock looked hopeful at the prospect of clothes. With the help of a nurse and Mark, Sherlock was out of the gown and into his normal lounge about clothes soon enough. He was panting when it was over but his face showed how happy he was. The nurse left the blankets folded at the end of the bed. 

Sherlock, despite the oxygen and tube in his nose looked rather like he was just relaxing at Baker Street. He looked to Mark as the team unhooked him from the room and prepared for the actual move. “Thank you, I know you’ve watched out for John. That means more to me than saving my life.”

Mark nodded and personally helped Sherlock into a wheelchair, getting him situated before they moved. “You both are a… unique set. He’s incredibly attached to you. I think your new room will be far more comfortable for you both.”

Sherlock gave a soft hum at that. “I’ve done John Watson many a disservice. He is the most loyal person I know and I love him.” He nodded as they moved down the hall toward where John waited. There were only mild curses toward the morphine for making him loose lipped. Sherlock was internally tired of pretending.

John was staring out the window, looking down on the people moving about below, one hand in his pocket and the other wrapped around the back of his neck. With Sherlock healing, he was going to have to put more thought into his situation with Mary. The knowledge made his gut twist. He was already so damn tired, and that problem so massive he had no idea where to even begin with it. 

Sherlock watched John as Mark wheeled him in. “Look, I can sit up, all on my own. Aren’t you proud?” There was a small smirk playing on Sherlock’s face, something of his normal sarcasm back in his voice.

John turned around and stared at Sherlock for a few seconds before speaking. “That’s… yeah, better. Much better. You don’t really pull off the bisected gown very well.” He cleared his throat, honestly knocked on his proverbial arse to see Sherlock looking so bloody normal. It was wonderful and unexpected, and utterly terrifying. Here, with Sherlock under the eye of a highly trained medical staff, John at least had the illusion of relief, it’s what allowed him to sleep and to walk out to shower. Obviously that would have to end at some point, but it looked swiftly approaching, and he could _not_ shake the image of Sherlock starring up at him, dead-eyed and gone. 

He rolled his lip between his teeth as he watched the staff help Sherlock up into his new bed, going about the motions of getting him reattached to his drips and leads and whatnot. 

When most of the nurses had cleared out, the current one’s name scribbled on the whiteboard where Sherlock had a clear view, Mark nodded to them both. “Well, this is a bit more space to spread out, Sherlock is on step-down care. There is a feed of his monitor at the nurses station, though not so closely watched. Not necessary at the moment.”

Sherlock looked out the window and then back to Mark. “Thank you. And I pull off the gown just fine thank you, John. It’s hardly my fault you couldn’t handle seeing my arse.”

The corner of his mouth quirked up as he attempted to keep a straight face through his teasing. 

John quirked a smile at him and shook his head, nodding to Mark as the man smiled and left. John took in an audible, deep breath, raising his shoulders with his hands in his pockets, looking about the room. “It’s...more comfortable,” he tried, watching Sherlock as he tried to cover the frantic pounding of his own heart. It was absurd. Sherlock was clearly fine, his color better than it had been in weeks and his vitals strong and steady. 

Sherlock’s brow furrowed. “John? Come here.” He shifted more toward the side of the bed and patted the mattress next to him. “Sit or lie down or… something? I’m okay. I am. They’ve even dropped my oxygen down and look at my sats. I’m fine.”

John moved over to him, sitting down on the bed beside Sherlock. “Yeah… yeah I know. You look so much better. I don’t, ah, I don’t exactly know what’s wrong with me.” 

He stared down at his lap, picking at the side of his thumbnail in a desperate attempt to distract himself from whatever the hell was going on. 

“I’ve crashed repeatedly on you. Scared you senseless numerous times. You’re terrified it’s going to happen again. I was fine when I came out of surgery after the sutures tore and then I wasn’t… It’s a legitimate worry- that I might crash again.” Sherlock shook his head. “But I’m much better. No real infection. Bit of junk hanging about in my lungs.”

John closed his eyes as Sherlock spoke to him, focusing on his breathing. The move, while not unexpected, had been abrupt. John had also mastered the art of denial since riding to hospital in the ambulance with Sherlock, and had simply put it out of his mind. 

“You-” he cleared his throat as it swelled up on him, trying again, “You are medically doing very well. No reason to suspect anything of the sort.” 

Sherlock wrapped his arms around John, his face pressing down against John’s shoulder. “No, there isn’t. But it doesn’t take the fear away and that’s okay. You’re allowed to feel that way. As days go by and I get better and better, you’ll find that tension easing.” He looked up and pressed a soft kiss to John’s jaw. “I promised I would not leave you. I’m not going to.”

John hummed as he tipped his head against Sherlock’s, eyes closed, no longer seeing the point in masking the panic Sherlock clearly knew about any longer. He let out a shaking breath and pulled in another through his nose, chin angled tightly in a last ditch effort to keep himself somewhat collected. 

“Hold you to that,” he rasped, clearing his throat and setting his jaw again, reaching down and curling his fingers in the material of Sherlock’s trousers. 

Sherlock closed his eyes as he held close to John. “Good.” He closed his eyes as they sat there together. His voice was soft. “You are the most important man I have ever known.”

John remained sitting like that for several minutes, leaned against Sherlock’s side, clutching the material of Sherlock’s trousers until his knuckles were white. It took a while to occur to him that this was likely not an ideal position for Sherlock to hold. “Do… do you want to lie down,” he whispered, still not moving a muscle. 

“Sherlock nodded against John. His voice was soft, hesitant. “Will you-” He took in a breath, “Will you hold me, for a little while?” Despite the way he’d slept, the morphine and the move had taken it out of him again. “Tired.”

John began to pull them back by way of an answer, settling against the back of the elevated bed and easing Sherlock to his chest. He wrapped his arms around Sherlock and held tightly to him, grateful for the additional room and the reduced number of leads and lines to watch out for while doing so. 

Sherlock let his head rest against John’s chest, hand curling in John’s jumper. His voice was soft, affectionate as he spoke Pashto to John. “Thank you. I love you, John. We’ll figure it all out. Okay? It’s all going to work out.” His words were slurring near the end, body going lax against John as the morphine worked against him.

John’s expression crumpled at the soft words, things he’d so desperately needed to hear but no longer believed possible. He grit his teeth and nodded, narrowly managing to keep his eyes dry, dragging in a catching breath as he closed his eyes, fingers curling in the material of Sherlock’s shirt. His throat burned as he was abruptly inundated with imagery from his own, very recent wedding, his Mary… the woman he’d fallen desperately in love with, smiling at his side. It had been the most wonderful day he could ever remember having. 

He let go of Sherlock with one hand, pressing it to his eyes as he drew in another sharp breath through his teeth. It took several seconds before he was sure he wasn’t going to spiral down out of it, mentally trying to talk himself down. 

The next week and a half came with changes and no small amount of derision from Sherlock to everyone. Even John was not safe. Sherlock often caught him with a barb when he was the most worn down, at the end of the day after a steady stream of therapists and doctors had been through, pushing him to get up, pushing him to eat. _Sit in the chair, breathe into this, no you can’t leave the room yet_. 

Days often ended with Sherlock near tears and asking John to forgive him for whatever horrible remark he’d sent at John. John weathered it all, his mind torn between Sherlock and all the problems he faced with Mary. 

Frankly, the days Sherlock demanded him the most were easier. He could shelve his thoughts on her, which had become infuriatingly circular, and focus on something he could manage straight away. Even Sherlock’s temper had been welcome, a signal to John that he was healing properly more than anything else. Several times over the days, John had nearly brought his troubles to Sherlock, wanting his insight. He’d decided against it every time, settling in his seat and staring off into space as he put his mind to it.

By the end of his time in the unit, Sherlock was off oxygen, eating on his own without the hateful tube in his nose, and he was able to shuffle from the bed, to the chair on his own. He still needed therapy and the infection in his lungs, while mostly clear, was still trying to hang on in some pockets.

Sherlock sat in the chair with the tablet Mycroft had given John, playing a game. His voice was soft. He’d taken to refusing to speak in anything but Pashto for days, making John translate if anyone came near him. English finally passed his lips. “You should nap. Take the bed while I’m here.”

John looked up from his seat, only then realizing his knee was bouncing hard and he was nearly biting thought his thumbnail. He _never_ chewed at his nails, found the habit disgusting. Hastily he dropped his hand away from his lips and shook his head. “No I’m fine here, thanks,” he said in his distraction, shifting slightly and stilling his leg, mind wrapped around the situation with his wife. 

“Suit yourself.” Pashto again, voice withdrawn. Sherlock stared at the tablet. It took him several moments to speak. “You were in the shower, they’re moving me again. I forgot to tell you.”

John looked up sharply, taking a brief moment to close his eyes and absorb that. “I’m sorry, what? When did they tell you this?” He refused to play Sherlock’s game outside of the completely necessary translations, addressing him in English, exhausted and irritated. 

“A few days ago. When you sneaked off to the doctor’s lounge to have a shower. Off oxygen, tube out, starting to wander about on my own. They won’t keep me in here. I get to be shunted off somewhere else in this godforsaken hospital to be therapied until I can go home.” Sherlock slipped back to English at the irritation in John’s voice. He’d pushed him earlier and found himself loathe to push him anymore.

John stared at him, the larger muscles of his jaw jumping. He took a moment before speaking, licking his lip and keeping in vicious control of himself. “So… you’ve known for _days_ that we were going to be moved, and then chose to keep it from me. _Why_? Why, Sherlock? Christ. I’m-” he had to press a finger to his lips, closing his eyes and humming a moment before carrying on, voice quieter in an effort to contain his anger. “I’m _trying_ here. I really am. Do I still not deserve a moment of consideration from you?” 

Sherlock looked guilty and his voice softened, sticking to English. “I- I really didn’t remember until just now. They told me as they pushed morphine after I’d worked so hard. That was the day I went to the chair and back on my own the first time.” He looked down at his lap. “I really didn’t remember, but I should have told you without just tossing it out there like that. I-” He shifted in his seat. “I’m sorry, John.”

John closed his eyes and took a moment to collect himself, his anger sated, at the least. He nodded silently, now trying to keep himself from worrying himself to death. “That’s… good. It’s a good sign. You’ve been doing really well. That’s… okay. Then we- okay, that’s okay.” He had stopped talking to Sherlock, the words mostly for himself. It was okay, but that didn’t stop his anxiety from roaring up and grabbing him by the throat. 

Sherlock pushed himself out of his chair, tablet abandoned in it as he crossed to John. Sherlock had no qualms about putting himself in John’s lap and he did just that. He tipped his head to John’s. “They didn’t say when, exactly… just that it would happen once all those things did. Maybe I’ll be here a few more days. I don’t know.”

John huffed as Sherlock sat on him, leaning his forehead against Sherlock’s despite his agitation. “You make us look as though a giraffe has perched on a bloody thimble, you great lout,” he said fondly, sliding an arm around Sherlock’s hip. He licked his lip and mentally slowed himself down. It was alright, it was. It had to be at some point. 

Swiftly his excuse of not returning home was running out. Sherlock was likely to be discharged in the next few weeks and then what was John to do? He’d made no headway towards a resolution with Mary. 

Sherlock tucked his head in against John’s neck. “I am far better looking than a giraffe, more graceful as well.” His voice grew quieter. “Will you come back to Baker Street with me? You can- you can bring her over, try to reconcile in a place that is yours, rather than you and Mary’s.”

John grit his teeth as he leaned into Sherlock. “I don’t know if that’s what I want. To reconcile, I mean. She-” he shook his head against Sherlock’s. “I’m… yeah I’ve not made much progress on that front. I have no intention of leaving you alone, either way, so please don’t worry over that.”

Sherlock nodded against John’s neck. He chewed on his lip as he held close to John, refusing to budge from his lap quite yet. “It’s all going to work out. It will.” He nuzzled in closer to John, clinging to him as he did.

“If you are going to settle down that temper of yours for a bit, I’ll curl up with you on the bed. You are killing my legs,” he said fondly, wrapping his arms around Sherlock and holding him close for a moment. “It… something will work out, yeah.” 

Sherlock smiled at that and kissed just under John’s ear. “I’ll behave. Promise.” He soaked up being held close for a moment more before he stood up. There was a slight waver and Sherlock put a hand on John’s shoulder. “Walk with me?” The bed wasn’t far, but Sherlock’s voice showed how tired he was.

John stood and reached out to steady Sherlock. He walked them to the bed and crawled up after toeing off his shoes.

"Come here," he said gently as he pulled Sherlock to him.

Sherlock curled up to John. His face pressed against him. One of his arms slipped around John's waist. He spoke as he nuzzled John. "This has become my favorite part of any day."

John wrapped his arms around Sherlock and closed his eyes, humming in agreement. "It's- yeah, mine as well." He was quiet for a few minutes before speaking softly again. "I don't know what to do about Mary."

Sherlock had known it was coming. It had been weeks in coming, pushed aside by his own illness. "I think perhaps you should come to Baker Street. Not out of selfishness, not purely out of selfishness. Take your room back if you wish. Don't shut her out though. See if things can't go back. You love her, she loves you. John, I have forgiven her." He looked up at him and touched John's cheek. "I just want you in my life. I want to spoil your child. There is so much I want to do like that."

"She should be having her scan soon. I..." he cleared his throat and sighed, staring up at the ceiling. "I don't know how you've forgiven her. That seems… impossible. I don't know how to forgive her." He tucked his face down against Sherlock and took a few minutes to breathe in deep and slow. "I'm coming with you to Baker Street. I don't want to go anywhere else."

"You should go to the scan. Even if you don't talk to her... Go to the scan." Sherlock took in a slow breath. "I have forgiven her because I understand her motives. I would do anything to protect you John. _Anything_." His body thrummed with tension for a moment before he relaxed again into John's side.

"Yeah, but that's the rub, isn't it? She was protecting herself. She did this so that I wouldn't find out. She knew… God she knew what losing you did to me. She'd seen how bad it was years later. And now… she wasn't protecting me. She was protecting her." He slid his hand through Sherlock's hair. "I don't want to leave you. I don't want to miss the scan. I just… Christ, I feel like I pulled the sky down on my own head."

Sherlock's fingers stroked through John's hair. "As misguided as it was, she was protecting you from it all, John." He kissed his jaw and tipped his forehead to John's cheek. "I will be okay long enough for you to go to the scan. You shouldn't miss it. No matter what's going on, you shouldn't miss that."

"I've likely already missed it," John sighed and leaned into Sherlock's fingers, threading his own in the material of Sherlock's shirt and closing his eyes. "I'm so tired of being sad. I used to believe in Karma, not… you know… religiously or anything, but I thought if I tried to be a decent man that things would turn around for me from when I was a child. I don't know what I've done, Sherlock, but hell I'd do anything to stop it. She… she gave me a taste of what I could have, were I supposed to, and Christ I wanted it."

Sherlock hummed, "You haven't. It's three days from now." As soon as the words were out he swore mentally. He bit down on his lip, waiting for John's reaction. It was most probable to be a bit not good.

John kept his eyes closed, holding very still as he allowed that to fully register. Slowly he sat up, untangling from Sherlock, putting his feet to the floor and walking silently over to the window. He slid his hands in his pockets to keep them from shaking, staring out the window as his eyes burned and the muscles at his jaw twitched. 

"So… what then? Are you two..." he shook his head and went quiet again. 

Sherlock sighed and hung his head. "I e-mailed her to check on her. Neither you or Mycroft have been very forthcoming about anything going on. So I- I e-mailed her. I asked how she was, how the baby was, when the scan was. That sort of thing. She e-mailed back today, obviously hesitant in her wording."

"I've not been forthcoming because I've not seen her since I got tackled and drugged. I've not spoken to her. I secured her safety and that was that." His voice was quiet, resigned and heavy as he stared at the window. "I feel guilt," he whispered, shaking his head before turning to look at Sherlock. "Hell, I'm drowning in it. This," he gestured to Sherlock in general, "is my doing. I've not checked on my pregnant wife in… weeks. I have no idea what the condition of my developing child is." 

He turned back to the window after having laid everything out in monotone, effortlessly, words that he'd said to himself so often they were rote. "What did she have to say?"

"The baby is doing wonderfully. The scan is in three days. She wants you there if you're willing." Sherlock ticked off the high points. "She asked after me and I gave her a small rundown of everything." He cleared his throat. "She misses us both terribly."

John remained quiet for a very long time, not moving, simply staring out the window with his hands in his pockets. He remained there for so long, the quality of the light shifted before he did, the sun beginning to tuck down below the horizon. 

"Do you believe she has the emotional capacity to miss us?" he finally asked, just above a whisper. 

Sherlock looked at John, his voice was open and honest. "Yes, because I do. I missed you every day I was gone." He folded his hands into his lap as he chewed on the inside of his cheek. 

John did not look at him, still staring outside. 

"But she… she is not like you. You- I have to believe that you would-" he dwindled down, leaning his shoulder against the windowsill and staring outside as his ears rang. John wanted to believe that Sherlock would stop at killing his wife to hide his identity, but he'd pitched himself off Barts, allowing John to feel his pulse and nearly black out as Sherlock stared right at him. He'd willingly destroyed John to hide his lie as well. 

John closed his eyes as gnawing panic stirred in his belly, clawing at him, twisting around his lungs until he was hardly breathing. 

Sherlock watched him and shook his head, "John, please believe we both love you. We- the things we've done haven't been-" He closed his eyes. "They've been not-good. But they've been because of how much we love you."

John did not turn his head, leaning hard on the windowsill to support himself as he moved far too slow to be natural. He drew his hand out of his pocket and gestured with shaking fingers to Sherlock in general. "This… this is not love," he said quietly, using that pointing hand to press over his eyes a moment later. 

He dropped his hand away after a moment, sliding it back to his pocket. "The night I met her, I was on my way home to put a bullet in my head. If I'd not got roughed up by those idiots, none of this..." he swallowed as his throat swelled shut. It took him several shaking, panicked breaths to manage words again. "What if my child is like this? Wh-what if I've doomed my child to-" he shook his head, going quiet. 

Sherlock looked away then. He closed his eyes, scrubbing at his face to fight the tears that were sliding down his cheeks. "I'm sorry. I- please forgive me, John." He took in a shuddering breath. "Your child is going to be fine. Your child will be beautiful and wonderful and everything will be fine. It will be."

John finally turned to look at him then. "I've already forgiven you," he said quietly before looking back out the window, "It's not as though you were on holiday. What happened… what you did… that was valid. That… I mean, I had a sniper on me, you were pinned, That's not what she did. She is a stranger, a total, complete stranger and everything she has ever said to me has been a lie. A lie. I made her my wife, the mother of my child, and I don't know her. She..." he let his voice fade out. 

"Everything I love… everything… I just… how am I supposed to be a father when I ruin everything I touch?"

"You don't ruin anything, John. This- we aren't the way we are because of you. But you are attracted to us because of who you are. You don't ruin anything." Sherlock pushed himself out of bed. His steps were slow but he made it to him. Long arms wrapped around John and pulled him close. He gazed down at him. "You are not at fault. Your child will be beautiful and brilliant."

"I don't know what to do. I don't. I don't. She is violent, so damned violent. You… you say mean things and you don't really care about what happens to me, but you don't hurt people for nothing. You don't. She… she's different than you. She… god she just _shot you_. How can I even begin to trust her as a mother? She's heartless. A psychopath. I- I can't-" he closed his eyes as his heart thundered behind his ribs, leaning against Sherlock's chest. 

"You should be in bed," he mumbled against the fabric of Sherlock's shirt, dragging in a shuddering breath. 

Sherlock stared down at him stunned. His voice was low, raw and trembling. "I don't- I don't care what happens to you?" Sherlock's jaw worked as he stepped back. "I don't care. Nope, not at all." He yanked his shirt up and over his head. Sherlock panted with the effort and spun in a slow circle. "Tell me how much I don't care, John. Tell me. Count the scars and then tell me how much _I don't really care_."

"No, Sherlock that's not-" John stammered, shaken back to himself. He's been rambling tangled thoughts that had coiled in his mind for weeks, not careful with his phrasing, "I didn't… oh, god, I didn't mean-" he stared at Sherlock's body, his mouth running dry and his throat swelling closed. He'd been thinking of the small things, like being left to arrest and the entire deal with Baskerville, not... "meant on a s-smaller level than-" 

He took a step back, and then another, stumbling over his own feet until his back hit the wall. "I… I didn't mean… I'm sorry, I'm sorry, that's not-" he pinched his eyes closed, breathing so hard it was nearly painful, "I'll go. Oh god, I am sorry." 

Sherlock stalked toward him as much as he could given his physical state. "You will not leave me." His hands curled in John's shirt and he leaned down and kissed him. It wasn't gentle, Sherlock was demanding with it. As first kisses went it could have been much better, but Sherlock was exhausted, hurting, and out to show John Watson how much he wanted and cared for him.

John's entire world narrowed down to the moment. He stood there, trapped between the wall and Sherlock, so startled by the move he couldn't breathe. He yielded, too stunned to do anything else, letting Sherlock's anger wash over him. As his knees threatened to fail him, he wrapped a hand around Sherlock's wrist at his shirt to anchor himself, eyes burning and gut twisted into knots. 

Sherlock was panting when he drew back only to rest his forehead against John. "I love you. I'm an idiot and I don't take care of you the way I should. I took you for granted, I still do. But I love you. I care. I care so bloody much, but you're right, when it comes to the small things I don't _think_. I just do and I drag you all over hell and back and always expect you to be there again. But I care and I love you."

John leaned into Sherlock, breathing harsh, rolling his bottom lip and catching it between his teeth as he closed his eyes and listened. He was ready to collapse himself, Sherlock must have been dying. John slid an arm around Sherlock's back and shook his head, forcing himself to breathe. 

"You… you have to sit down," he rasped, starting to push Sherlock back to the bed. "P-please I don't want you fall." 

Sherlock allowed John to move him back toward the bed. He near collapsed in it, exhaustion setting in. There were muttered words as his eyes closed, "Not exactly how I envisioned our first kiss to go. Bit- ah, spontaneous there."

John's hands were trembling hard as he moved Sherlock in the bed, easing him so that pressure would be off the wound, tucking blankets around him. Words failed him, he had no idea how to respond. Had that happened without Mary in his life, John would have been on cloud nine. As it was, his lips tingled where Sherlock's had been and he now missed contact he had no idea he'd wanted, and _Christ_ if it wasn't all hurtful. 

He reached up and slid his palm over Sherlock's curls, loathing how badly he was shaking, letting his fingers trail down the side of Sherlock's neck. "I… it's… fine. It's all fine," he managed roughly. 

Sherlock leaned into the touch. "I'm sorry. I should have known what you meant. Everything is so strange, so wrong these days." He shook his head. "My apologies, John."

John eased down into the chair beside Sherlock's bed and nodded. He couldn’t agree with him more. It was all wrong. All of it. John leaned on the railing, resting his cheek on his forearm as he carried on sliding his fingers through Sherlock's hair. 

"Worded that wrong. My fault," he said quietly, closing his eyes and focusing on breathing properly. He'd been heading off the panic since he'd been forcibly drugged, ignoring the pills and trying to keep his mind away from it all. 

"Should sleep. Both of us. Been rough lately... and I've been an absolute arse." Sherlock took in a shuddering breath. He closed his eyes as he lay there. "It's all got to even out sometime." 

"What if it doesn't?" 

John did not move as he spoke, did not open his eyes or shift, still carrying on threading his fingers in Sherlock's hair, doing his best to soothe the man despite his own absolute distress. "What if this is it for us? Just… just this constant..." he exhaled slowly, gripping the railing so hard it hurt. "You two are… settled. It's me. It might even out without… without me." 

Sherlock took in a sharp breath. "No, you can't possibly think that. We're not... it's not settled. We're not settled without you, John." He shook his head and looked over at the man he loved. "No..."

John remained quiet as his mind churned through what he knew, what he felt, what he suspected. He kept hold of the bedrail, though his fingers slowly stilled against Sherlock's scalp, only tremmoring with his distress. Deep breaths were taken as he tried to quiet the frankly alarming suggestions his mind was offering him, trapped and exhausted. 

"John, rest, please... Come up here? I'll stroke my hands through your hair. I'll do whatever you need me to for you to rest." Sherlock watched John, worried for him. His expression unguarded.

"There isn't a solution," he whispered back, nearly as though he'd not heard Sherlock. "I've been trying all this time… there isn't. I'm… God, I'm," he let loose a pained sound of distress and grit his teeth, breathing a few times before he started speaking again, "there isn't a way to fix it, no way to set it right."

Sherlock closed his eyes again. "John, you're overwrought and exhausted. Please. Just-" He looked to his friend. "Please lie back and try to get some rest. This cannot be solved when you're this tired and upset."

John drew himself slowly back, sitting properly in his chair and looking to Sherlock before looking down at his hands. "I'm… yeah, I'm sorry," he managed, not looking up, "you don't need this right now. I hadn't meant… I'm sorry. You're right."

Sherlock shook his head, "That's not what I meant... we're both so tired we're reacting to things we think the other means and it's not good. We're tired, we're stressed." He took in a deep breath. "I am so sorry."

John pressed a hand to his face and took a few slow, even breaths before speaking softly. "I… I can go for a few hours, let you rest. I don't know what's wrong with me, Sherlock. I'm..." he shook his head and wrapped an arm around himself. 

"Please come up here? We can rest together? Please?" Sherlock was desperate to get John settled and asleep. "I- I just want you to rest. I'll rest better if- but if you don't want to I understand."

John finally looked at him, holding still for another moment before standing and carefully getting up into the bed at his side. "I… Christ I didn't mean for..." he slung an arm across his own chest, wrapping his fingers around his shoulder and squeezing tight enough to bruise, savoring the feel of it. Anything to distract from the pain in his damned head. 

Sherlock tucked into John's side. He wrapped his arm around John's waist. His voice was soft. "We're tired, we're- we need sleep. I'm sorry." Sherlock was at a loss, his voice wavered. "Please forgive me."

John leaned into Sherlock and held quiet until the noise in his head was too much. "Would… would you… my hair, it helps make it quiet, I… please," his voice faded down, eyes pinched closed, still gripping himself desperately in a bid to feel something else. 

Sherlock hand went to John's hair as soon as he started asking. His fingers trailed through the long strands, long for John. He smiled to himself as he soothed him. "You are perfection, John. I know it doesn't feel that way right now, but you are."

John slowly began to relax, Sherlock's fingers managing to ease him back down once again. It never failed. He tipped his forehead to Sherlock's shoulder and slowly began to unfold from himself, wrapping an arm around Sherlock's hip after nearly twenty minutes, his breathing slowly evening out. 

"I… I can still always come to Baker Street, yeah?" he asked after a long period of silence, his voice just at a whisper

Sherlock didn't pause in his ministrations. He kept his fingers going. "Of course you can, John. You can always come to Baker Street. It will always be open to you, no matter what." His fingers massaged John's head in tender circles.

John nodded, easing in closer to Sherlock before sleep began to edge in on his consciousness. He was miserable, but at least he wasn't alone and miserable. He managed to keep awake for another five before softly sliding down, his breathing slowing and evening out, shifted as close to Sherlock as he could be without hurting him. 

Sherlock closed his eyes when John finally dropped off. He wrapped up around John as much as he could, dragging the covers over both of them. It took Sherlock another ten minutes to ease himself into sleep, despite his exhaustion.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things seem to be on the upswing for us both. Thanks for all your patience and kind words.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the absence... Here's chapter fifteen, important notes after the chapter.

John startled awake at half four, drawing in a sharp breath and pressing his hands over his face as he mastered himself. Seconds later he was fumbling for his mobile, sick at his stomach and dizzy as the line rang, waiting for Mary to answer. 

Mary answered her phone, "John, is everything okay?" She was gentle as she spoke.

John pulled in a deep breath as relief flooded over him. "Are you alright," he asked, nearly in tears, "tell me you're okay."

"John, love. Oh god, yeah- I'm fine, baby's fine. Everything is fine here. Did something happen? Are you okay? Is Sherlock okay?" Mary's voice was on alert, concern laced through it.

John nodded to himself as he pressed one hand over his eyes, holding the phone to his ear and dragging in slow, deep breath after the other. He shifted closer to Sherlock so that their shoulders were touching, grounding him. "Nothing happened," he managed, dragging in another sharp breath to calm down. "Just… just sleeping."

"Okay, alright. Did you have a nightmare?" Mary kept her voice gentle as she spoke to him. "We're safe, full and happy right now other than missing you."

John nodded to himself, dropping his hand away and staring up at the ceiling. "Yeah… g-glad to hear you're okay. Sorry for the uh, early hour." He closed his eyes again, breathing slowly to calm himself down. 

"No no, it's fine. It is. I'm glad to hear from you. Scan's in a few days. Was going to text you tomorrow, see if you wanted to come." Mary chewed on her lip as she talked to him.

"Fairly sure Sherlock was going to toss me out to come along one way or the other," John answered, tipping his head to Sherlock's shoulder as he lay on his side. "I thought I'd missed it already."

"No, John, I wouldn't go without asking if you wanted to go. I rescheduled it so you could have the chance to be here." Mary's voice was warm. "He emailed me..."

John carefully slid out of the bed, not wanting to wake Sherlock, and walked out into the hall before speaking. “Yeah... he said as much,” John replied, scrubbing a hand over the back of his neck as he listened to her. “He’s… well, I’m sure you know.”

Mary hummed, “On the road to recovery thank goodness. I’ve been madly worried about you both. How are you holding up?”

John cracked a laugh and shook his head. “I’m trying,” he said in quiet resignation, “I’m trying. It’s hard to see him like this as it is.” 

“I know… and add everything else to it. I am sorry John. Is there anything I can do right now to help you? Bring you anything? I could make that soup you love?” Mary’s voice was sincere as she spoke to him.

John cleared his throat and moved to the corner of the hallway, taking a chair and speaking very quietly in the dim lighting. He put his head in his hand and forced himself to ask. “Explain to me how this was… help me understand how you were protecting me. I can’t see how it was anything other than protecting your lie, for your sake.” He was calm as he spoke, if not pained, exhausted with the mental gymnastics he’d launched himself into in an effort to puzzle it out and see it as Sherlock did. 

“It was about protecting you from the past. My past. I was there to find out exactly what Magnussen had on me. Sherlock and you- God help me- you showed up. I had to shoot him and make it look like I intended to kill him and pray that it didn’t John. I couldn’t kill Magnussen without knowing what he has and if I could have, I couldn’t leave it to Scotland Yard. They’d have pinned it on you and Sherlock somehow. Even with Sherlock’s brilliance to get you out. I-” Mary took in a breath. “I did everything I could to not kill Sherlock short of not shooting him and at the time it didn’t seem like an option. Not without drawing suspicion on you two.”

John dragged his hand over his hair, pulling at the back for a moment as he listened to her. “I’d have gladly stood trial over this. I’d… this isn’t…” he squeezed the back of his neck in an effort to keep himself calm. She had to choose between walking away from John or shooting Sherlock, and went with the latter. “I… god, Mary, you’ve made such a spectacular fool of me. I’d have chosen heartbreak or incarceration over watching him-” he trailed off, taking in a deep breath and nodding as he corrected his posture. “Thank you for at least explaining it to me.” 

Mary let out a slow breath. “I am sorry I hurt him… sorry I hurt you. I was- in that moment it was the only choice I felt I had.”

“Can you even live this sort of life, Mary? Being a mum, married to a dull clinic doctor, domestic and… I mean, you and he are alike. You heard what he said at the wedding, all those thoughts on marriage. How could you possibly be happy stuck to a man like me?” 

“Oh, John… You aren’t dull. If you were dull Sherlock and I wouldn’t have given you a second glance. We’re drawn to you because you’re spectacular. Life isn’t boring with you. You and Sherlock are a hell of a pair. I’d really like you both in my life- even if you move back to Baker Street.” Mary shook her head as she spoke. “The two of you are amazing and how could it ever be dull?”

John squeezed the back of his neck again, taking a moment to breathe in an effort to keep steady. He licked his lip and cleared his throat before speaking again. “Is anything you’ve ever said to me a truth, or was it all… I don’t know what you had to gain, I really don’t… I made you my wife and it was the happiest day of my life. None of it was real. I-” he exhaled slowly and shook his head, “I miss you so incredibly much, but you’re not even real. The person I miss… you made her up.” 

“John, my past may be made up, but all our experiences, my love for you… our child. All of that is real. I love you. I miss you.” Mary’s voice wavered. “Our wedding was very real.”

John shook his head, his voice pained and quiet, “You could not possibly understand how much I want to believe you right now.” His breathing hitched and he grit his teeth, trying to slow down as the hollow ache in his chest screamed at him to take the promise of comfort, of relief. 

“I’ll see you at the scan, Mary.” 

Mary took in a breath, “It is true. And I will spend as long as you allow me to proving it. I’ll see you at the scan. I love you, John.”

John rang off without another word, sliding his phone back into his pocket before cradling his head in his hands and breathing, his heart in his throat. It took him several minutes to compose himself enough to get up and return to Sherlock’s room, quietly walking in without the lights, no idea if he was awake or not. 

Sherlock was half awake, his words near slurred, “Come back to bed?”

John nodded to himself as he shuffled over to the side of the bed and crawled back up, laying down at Sherlock’s side and tipping his forehead to Sherlock’s shoulder. “I didn’t mean to wake you,” he whispered, his voice wavering. 

Sherlock wrapped up around him, “You called her… didn’t you?” He nuzzled John’s hair as they lay there wrapped up against one another.

John nodded, keeping close to Sherlock, his eyes pinched shut. “Had a dream… god I must look so _stupid_ to you both.” he swallowed hard as the thought finally occurred to him. His grip on Sherlock’s arm tightened and he exhaled forcefully in an effort to keep himself steady. 

“Not stupid… John?” Sherlock drew back enough to look at him. “Hey, what is it?”

John closed the distance, using their close proximity to hide behind, pressing most of his face to Sherlock’s arm. “Maybe not so much to you, not now, at least, but she… god she was so-” he could picture her face in the low lighting of the bedside lamp, all drenched in concern, “She’s a damned assassin and she sat with me through these damned dreams. She’s fine. Totally fine. She must think… Christ, I feel fucking _pathetic_.” He spat the word out with vicious self-loathing. 

“John, I do not think for one second Mary thinks any less of you for your dreams. Do you think less of me for mine? Rhetorical. Of course you don’t. The woman loves you and is likely in a position to understand more than most people.” Sherlock brushed the top of John’s head with his nose.

John gripped Sherlock’s arm tighter and just sat there, letting it all settle. He’d never felt more conflicted, more lost, in all his life. He swallowed hard and laid still for a long while. “I’d… I’d always been the one doing the protecting. Now… god now what the hell use am I?” 

“John, you’ve saved my life multiple times over the last several weeks. You’re very useful. Even if you don’t feel it right now.” Sherlock gave in and pressed his face down against John’s hair.

John just remained with Sherlock as he was, feeling weighed down and far too heavy to do anything else. His fingers stayed wrapped around Sherlock’s bicep and he lingered there, breathing and trying to still his mind. 

Sherlock rubbed circles on John’s hip with his thumb as they lay there. He closed his eyes again, unable to fend off sleep any longer. His breathing evened out and soon he was sleeping, tucked in against John’s head.

John made the effort at following a single line of thought, wanting nothing more than to come to a conclusion, one way or the other, utterly loathing the limbo he was currently in. Each time he grabbed one of the many racing ideas, he could only trace along with it for a few seconds before derailed by another. He carried on like this until sleep finally wrapped around him and pulled him back down, resting until the staff came back in to wake Sherlock for his morning treatments.

Sherlock grumbled and fussed, but spoke English to the staff for the first time in a week. He was eating breakfast in his chair again before he spoke to John, “How are you feeling?”

John looked up at Sherlock from where he’d been staring at his own food, dry spoon in hand, nothing touched. He cleared his throat and looked away. “Fine. I’m- yeah, I’m fine.”

Sherlock nodded. _Lying_ , John was lying to him. He tucked back into his food without further comment. What was there to say? He just wanted to go home.

John was unintentionally quiet for the rest of the day, staying at Sherlock’s side as he went through the motions of various therapies and treatments. John ate nothing of breakfast and very little at lunch, mostly caught up in his own thoughts. It was with no small amount of surprise that he found them bringing dinner into Sherlock’s room. He looked over to the clock and hissed. “Where did the day go?”

Sherlock shrugged as he stared at his meal. “Same place I suppose all of them do. Isn’t there some book or story or something? The Langoliers… they eat time? I don’t know. I tend to delete Stephen King after I’ve read him, bits hang on though.”

John shrugged in return, dragging his hand over his face. He was exhausted. Sherlock’s food did not at all smell appetizing to him, though he much doubted that anything would smell good to him at the moment. “I told her I would go,” he randomly informed, looking over at Sherlock, clearly not sure in his decisions.

“Good.” Sherlock poked at his food, managing to get about half his food down before he spoke again. “I’m glad you’re going to go. Your child needs you.”

John shifted in his seat at that, looking away and sucking in one side of his cheek. Those words made him decidedly uncomfortable. “Can’t do much before the baby is born. I’d never… never not be there when I’m needed. Scan won’t… it’s not as though-” he licked his lip and scrubbed a hand through his hair. 

“I’m already rubbish at this.” 

“John Hamish Watson, you stop that. I mean it. You are going to be a wonderful father and your child is going to love you. If you can take care of me, which you have, thank you. Let’s not drag getting shot into this, that was beyond your control and you have _saved my life_ numerous times after it. You can take care of anything.” Sherlock huffed and shook his head.

John gave him a tight smile that failed to reach his eyes and nodded before he looked away. “I uh, I can pop downstairs and get you something else to eat if you don’t want what they brought you,” he offered, trying to shift the focus. His fingers curled into a fist that he tapped on the side of his chair, muscles coiled tight in an effort to keep himself in check. 

Sherlock shook his head, “I’m full. Thank you though. But if you need to go walk, then I understand. I know it’s been- hard.” He failed to come up with a better descriptor in the moment.

John shook his head. “No, I’m fine, was just offering.” He dragged in a deep breath and closed his eyes. It was all so damned complicated. In addition, he’d developed over the course of the day, an acute case of nerves. He and Mary were not exactly in the ideal age category for pregnancy, and now that he’d put his mind to the scan, he was aching with the statistics. He had no idea what Mary had exposed herself to, and while he doubted she would risk the pregnancy, he no longer had any reason to assume otherwise. He didn’t know her, her character, or her limits. 

He exhaled a wavering breath and looked at the clock. “I’ve become such a coward that part of me does not want to know.”

Sherlock shook his head, “You’re not a coward, John. You’re not.” He rubbed a hand over his face. “You’ve been through hell, but you are not a coward.”

John licked his lip and nodded, “I uh, yeah I’ll just… going to shower. I’ll be back,” he stood up, moving swiftly to gather his clothes and shower kit, sensing Sherlock’s frustration, wanting to give the man his space. He damn well needed to get himself back under control, he’d been ridiculous all day. 

“John… I’m sorry I’m- enjoy your shower.” Sherlock moved to his feet and made his way toward the bed. He curled up into it and dragged the blankets nearly over his head.

John nearly ran from the room, guilt nipping at his heels for not trying to comfort Sherlock first. He was too on edge, too raw to do much good at the moment. He took his time in the shower, carefully getting everything pushed down deep, capping it off as he typically did. By the time he returned, he had managed to get something of a handle on himself. 

“Hey,” he said softly as he walked in, “I’m sorry, I just got a little ridiculous. I didn’t intend to upset you.” 

Sherlock pulled the covers off of his head. “It’s okay. We’re tired and stressed out because of this. I’m ready to go home.” 

Mark knocked on the doorframe. “Hey guys… got a minute?”

John looked up at the familiar doctor as he set his bag down. “Sure, Mark, what’s up?” He moved to stand beside Sherlock, slipping his hand into his pocket. 

“Want to talk about moving Sherlock. Finally putting him in a regular room, down where therapy can get to him better. Things are looking really good. I’d like to have his lungs a bit more clear, a little more weight on him, and him walking better but- this is good. You’re doing really well Sherlock. Last step before you can go home, yeah?”

Sherlock looked to John and back to Mark, “Been ready to go home for ages.”

John kept a close hold on his breathing and forced himself to give a small smile and a nod. Sherlock had been doing well. Medically this was a perfectly logical move. “Alright, thanks for all your help, Mark,” he said without looking the man in the eye. “He has been doing well.”

Mark nodded, “Right then. Well, let me have a listen.” Mark moved to him and Sherlock huffed. Mark smiled as he listened to Sherlock’s lungs. “Sounding much better.” He looped his stethoscope over his neck. “See you tomorrow you two. Get some rest. We’ll get you in a room sometime after breakfast.”

John nodded to him and watched Mark leave, nervous energy thrumming through his chest. He drew in a slow, deep breath and looked to Sherlock. “Well that’s good news then, isn’t it?”

Sherlock looked up to John, “Yeah, it is, great news actually. I might actually be out of here within a week or two.”

John nodded and cleared his throat. “Yeah that seems likely.” He shifted in place, incredibly nervous from a myriad of sources. The idea of no one else watching Sherlock regularly not at all helping. “I should let you get some sleep.”

Sherlock chewed on his bottom lip. “Are you going to rest?” The man wanted to be selfish, to drag John into bed with him, demand he never leave his side.

“I should, yeah. I should.” John looked around the room for a moment and then back to Sherlock. “I’m sorry I’ve been such an arse today, Sherlock. I’ve- it’s just a lot on, is all. Should have handled it better.” He looked to the door and then back to him. “I can find a spot, if you’d like a bit of privacy.”

“God no, please, come here?” Sherlock shook his head, “You can I mean- if you want to leave I’ll understand but I just want you with me. I sleep better.”

John set a few things away in the room, killing the main overhead and toeing off his shoes before moving to the side that was slowly becoming ‘his’ and crawling up. He settled on his side, facing Sherlock, taking a moment to study him before looking up at his monitor. The readouts ticked by for several minutes before he looked away. A normal room would have so much less available if something went wrong. It twisted in his gut and he closed his eyes, reaching out and wrapping a hand around Sherlock’s wrist. 

Sherlock tucked in close to John and closed his eyes as he got them both under the covers. His body sagged with exhaustion against the bed and John. The day had been long, full of therapies and general nuisances.

John managed to find a few hours of rest in the night, keeping close to Sherlock and trying not to move very much. He was exhausted, his nerves worn down and strung so tight over the last few weeks that he was without much endurance. Morning snuck in on him quickly and he found himself reluctant to wake up, even when the staff in the hallway began to move about with the typical morning bustle. 

Sherlock buried in closer to John, murmuring at them to go away. He wasn’t fully awake and it showed in how he clutched at John, curling against him and nuzzling in a way he only did when he was unguarded when his brain didn’t override what he wanted.

John quite agreed, not at all ready to wake up. He stayed as he was, warm with a blissfully quiet mind, dragging the blankets up higher on their shoulders. The staff could honestly piss off today, John wasn’t at all in the mood. 

Sherlock drifted back to sleep against John, more than happy to cuddle against him and sleep. He started twitching about a half hour later. He whimpered in his sleep, flinching away from something. Pashto was whispered, words slowly becoming clear, begging John not to let him pass out.

John sat up as Sherlock began speaking, his heart in his gut, reaching out and wrapping his hands around Sherlock’s biceps. “Sherlock, wake up,” he said in quiet Pashto, trying to ease him out of it, “Sherlock, open your eyes and look at me.”

Sherlock flinched, crying out in Serbian. His tone was begging even if John couldn’t understand the words. He buried himself against John’s chest, Pashto passing his lips, “Take me home, John, please, take me home!”

John wrapped his arms around Sherlock as best he could at the odd angle and spoke in soft Pashto back to him. “I will, we have to get through this, but then I will. Breathe, Sherlock,” he tried to ease him back as Sherlock’s oxygen meter blipped at them, worried he’d crimped off the tube under his nose. 

Sherlock came awake gasping and clutching at John. He was wild eyed and panicked as he looked around, begging John in Pashto, “Don’t let them hit me. God, don’t let them hit me anymore.”

John blinked at him, taking that in for a split second before pulling Sherlock up off the mattress and back to his chest. “You’re safe,” he said sharply, trying to shock the words into him, “You are in hospital, London, safe.”

A nurse walked in and John instantly clipped, “Not now,” giving her a look that brooked no argument. One hand wrapped protectively around the back of Sherlock’s neck, the other across Sherlock’s back. 

Sherlock tried to calm his breathing. “London?” His chin quivered as he looked at John. “English? It’s safe to speak English?”

John answered as such, “London, everything is safe, you’re safe.” He pulled him in close again, one hand fisting in Sherlock’s shirt and the other threading in his hair. “Dream, it was a dream Sherlock. You’re okay.”

Sherlock pressed his face to John’s neck. “Sorry, I’m sorry. I’ve been okay… I have been and-” He let out a soft whimper.

John kept his grip tight, leaning his head against Sherlock’s. “Don’t apologize, you’ve nothing to be sorry for. It will pass, give it a few minutes. Just breathe, I have you.” 

Sherlock breathed slowly against John, his shaking subsiding over the next few minutes. “Maybe- maybe I should get the MP3 player back out.”

John eased him back to look at him. “We can do that in your new room, yeah? They are going to want to move you soon. We can put the player back out, that’s fine. It’s going to be okay, Sherlock, I’m so sorry you woke up like that. Miserable way to start.”

Sherlock kept hold of John’s shirt. “You’re always there for me. No matter what. Thank you.” He still looked exhausted. “I just want to be back to Baker Street, John.”

John nodded, wrapping one hand around Sherlock’s wrist. “I know, I know you do. I want to take you home, believe me. You’ve nearly got there, alright? We are close. Just lie back, maybe I can talk Mark into leaving you alone today, letting you rest, and we can do all this tomorrow.”

Sherlock shook his head. “Room would be better. Just get it over with. Get moved and ask them to leave me alone after the move?” He looked up at John.

The nurse came back in before John could answer, bringing a second nurse with her. “Mr. Holmes? It’s a bit early, but your room is ready and now would honestly be the best time to move you. Dr. Walthers will not be in for a few more hours, I’m afraid, but you don’t need that sort of supervision anymore. Are you ready?” 

Sherlock took in a deep breath, “Yeah, sure. That’s fine. I’m ready.” He scrubbed a hand over his face.

Forty-five minutes later, John was just setting out the MP3 on Sherlock’s bedside, the nurses gone, only three leads running off Sherlock to reflect his condition on the monitor. The room was massive, comparatively, with several windows and plenty of space to stretch out. John had already asked that the staff cancel non-essential therapy for the day to give Sherlock rest. Mark would surely be in to talk about that, but John was determined. 

He checked his watch, frowning at the time. “Sherlock, I’m… I’m going to have to leave in about an hour.”

Sherlock nodded. “Make sure to bring me a picture. I want to know how it’s doing.” He looked up to John. “Make sure you bring the picture back. I want to hang it up in here if I’m to be stuck.”

John pulled a chair up beside Sherlock’s bed and sat down. “You okay?” Sherlock had yet to regain his color since the morning, still sounding distant and off. 

Sherlock watched him, “What? I’m fine, being moved was just a bit much.”

John supposed it was only fair that Sherlock be allowed to hedge, he’d done it on several occasions and could hardly be upset over it. 

“Alright, well, if you’re sure. Can I do anything for you before I head out? I… I’ll only be an hour or two. As long as the scan goes… well.”

“Cuppa? Haven’t had a proper cup in ages. Would you make one? Like at home?” Sherlock rubbed a hand over the back of his neck.

John didn’t try to cover the surprise. “Uh, sure, yeah I’ll go see where they keep… yeah, let me go get that for you,” he said warmly before getting up and tapping the music player, “Don’t forget you have this, I’ll be right back.” 

He moved out into the hall and found a nurse, asking her where he could make tea. It took a little doing, and it wasn’t Sherlock’s brand, but it would have to suffice. He returned nearly twenty minutes later, walking in with two steaming mugs. “Sorry that took so long,” he said as he handed Sherlock his.

Sherlock wrapped his hands around the mug and sighed. He put his nose nearly in the mug as he breathed it in. “Thank you, it’s perfect.”

John sat with him, watching the time tick down for him to leave, his own anxiety through the roof when he finally set his tea aside. He drew in a slow, deep breath and closed his eyes a moment. “I don’t want to go do this.”

Sherlock reached out and twined their fingers together. “It’s okay, John. It is. You’ll go and get lovely pictures of your baby and everything will be perfect.”

John squeezed his fingers back. “It might not though, I don’t know what she’s been doing, I- we are older and- I have things that run in my family and god only knows about hers. I have to see Mary and-” he made himself exhale slowly, running a hand over his head. “So bloody stupid to be like this.” 

“Go see to your child, John. Everything will be fine.” Sherlock smiled, trying to be reassuring. “It’s going to be fine, you will see.”

John nodded, letting go of Sherlock’s hand as he bit down on the inside of his cheek. “I… I can see if Molly can come up and sit with you. I’ll be back as soon as I can,” he said roughly, starting for the door. 

“I’d like a little time alone, I think… But thank you.” Sherlock cleared his throat. “Be safe, John.”

John stared at him for a moment, deliberating, nearly calling the whole damn thing off. Sherlock wouldn’t have it though, and he knew it, that aside, avoiding the scan would do nothing to change reality. If there was something wrong with the baby, holding off would do no good. 

He nodded a moment later, eyes to the floor, swiftly leaving the room. He hailed a cab, and far too soon he was standing in front of the clinic, nearly coming out of his skin as he bounced on the balls of his feet, waiting for her to show up. 

Mary parked the car as she spotted John waiting for her. She pulled herself out of the car and moved to him. “Thank you for coming, John.”

John swept his eyes over her before looking away, nodding. He kept his distance as they moved, both of his hands in his pockets, his heart lodged up in his throat. He’d nearly reached out and touched her belly, wanting just a moment of this experience he was completely missing, before changing his mind and keeping to himself. He walked over to a distant row of chairs, waiting while Mary checked herself in. 

Mary appeared by his side a few minutes later and sat down. “How are you?” She offered her hand, palm up. She wasn’t expecting him to take it, but she’d be pleasantly surprised if he did.

“Yeah, I’m fine. Just fine.” He refused to look at her, keeping his head turned slightly away, finding it difficult to breathe. There were pamphlets scattered about, several on fetal abnormality, and John closed his eyes. The way things had been going, it wouldn’t come as a surprise if there was something wrong. His fingers locked over his knee and he cleared his throat. “How have you been feeling,” he asked with his eyes to the floor, his voice far from steady. 

“I’ve been doing well, everything seems to be absolutely wonderful as far as the baby goes.” Mary watched him and then looked to the floor, folding her hands into her lap. 

John nodded. “That’s… that’s good,” he responded, not quite knowing what else to say, worried over Sherlock sitting alone for the first time since he’d been admitted, right after a waking night terror. He tipped his watch to check the time, knee bouncing without his awareness. 

Soon the two of them were called back to wait in a room. Mary laid back on the cot in the room and watched John. “Calm down, John. Everything is fine. You look ready to shake out of your skin.”

John gave a tight smile, “Trust me, Mary, if I could make all this stop, I would. I’m… I’m calm. It’s fine,” he replied as color touched his cheeks and he stood, pacing near the back as they waited for the doctor to come in.

Mary nodded and relaxed as best she could. The doctor came in a few minutes later. “Hello! How are you doing Mary? Is this Doctor Watson then?”

John moved back over to her side, nodding and holding his hand out to shake his. “Yes, that’s me,” he said quietly before tucking his hands back into his pocket, gnawing the inside of his cheek. He wasn’t going to be able to handle it, he just absolutely knew for certain, without a doubt, that he wouldn’t be able to cope if there was a problem here. 

“Right, well let’s check on this baby.” The doctor smiled as Mary prepared for the scan. Soon he had the gel on her and was scanning over her. He smiled as he found the heart. “Look here. Strong.”

John gripped his hands behind his back, watching the ultrasound screen closely, his entire world zeroed in on the screen. The pregnancy had just become his _baby_ and he’d never, ever experienced anything like it before. He watched as all the cardiac measurements were done, holding his breath, weak in the knees. 

“Let’s get a look at this little one’s face,” her doctor said warmly, panning out in a blur of black and white until there was a little profile in front of them, little lips moving, small twitches here and there that made the side view of his child’s face shift slightly. 

“Oh, my god,” John breathed, shifting his footing and having to splay his hand out on the plastic mattress beside Mary’s shoulder to keep his footing. He looked down at Mary’s slightly swollen abdomen and then back to the screen, blinking rapidly to steady himself. The doctor took several stills and then moved on, starting to measure the brain and the markers for Downs and a myriad of other fetal defects. “Nuchal fold looks good,” he remarked a few minutes later, all but ruling out Downs, at the least. 

Mary smiled as she looked up to John. “So beautiful. Oh John, look at our baby.” She wiped at her face, brushing tears away. “Gorgeous.”

John kept his focus to the screen for most of the remaining time in the scan, though he did reach up at one point, when they were getting a view of a very active, tiny foot, and slid his palm over the crown of Mary’s head. In the end, everything seemed to be going just as planned. They were handed a print out of pictures from the scan, which John handed to Mary, and they were left on their own for Mary to collect herself before checking out. 

John cleared his throat as Mary ran a towel over her belly. “Could I have one of those? Sherlock… Sherlock was asking.”

Mary smiled brightly, “Of course. God, yes of course.” She finished cleaning herself up and slipped off the table. She detached one of them showing the whole baby for them. “How’s this one?”

John took the picture with slightly shaking fingers, looking down at the image, both elated and deeply saddened. He bit the inside of his cheek as he pulled out his wallet and slipped the picture inside, tucking it away and nodding to her. “I… thank you.” He shook his head, irritated with himself, looking back down to the floor. 

Mary nodded. “Do you want me to take you back to hospital? I would like to see him, if you don’t mind. He seemed open to the idea in his email.” She looked at John, trying to keep a neutral expression but failed to keep the hopeful look off her face.

John shook his head without hesitation. “He,” he cleared his throat, wondering how to go about this. He ran a hand over the back of his neck and shook his head, “I don’t think today is a good day for that. I uh, maybe just email him.” He did not think bringing Sherlock his shooter on the same day he’d had a panicked nightmare regarding his torture was a particularly good idea. 

Mary nodded. “Okay, the offer for the ride back stands. I can drop you off. Cheaper than a cab and I hope, slightly better company.”

John nearly argued, not at all keen to get in the car with Mary. It would be quite the slight though to reject a short ride from her, and she was, much as he was loath to give her credit, actually trying. He nodded and set his jaw, following her out into the main lobby and waiting as she set her appointment. 

It was sunny when they walked out, a rare bit of sky breaking through the clouds. He loaded into the passenger side and leaned back in his seat, letting his eyes fall closed for a moment. 

Mary just let him rest as she settled into the car. She pulled out, headed back toward the hospital. Her voice was soft. “John, I am sorry I hurt him. Sorry I hurt you. I do love you both. I’ve given you no reason to believe it, but I do.”

John did not open his eyes. He breathed in deep and began speaking quietly. “He was tortured. Mary. Tortured. For a month, just before he revealed himself.”

“Christ… You mean just before he showed up at the restaurant? That’s- Oh my god.” She made a turn, shaking her head.

John opened his eyes and stared out the window, his knuckles curled to his lips, letting his mind drift. Sherlock hadn’t been well when he’d left, he just hoped it wouldn’t cause him too many problems. How he simply wanted to speak with his wife, how he wanted to confide in her and let her help. He drew in a sad, slow breath and exhaled the thoughts away. They wouldn’t do him any good, anyhow. 

“John, I’ll do anything to help the two of you. I will. Even if- even it that means just staying out of your way. I know-” Mary took a deep breath. “I know that you love each other very much. I’m not going to force you to stay with me. I don’t expect you to give him up either. You finally have him back.”

She let out a breath, “If you do decide that you want to continue us- if you can… I still won’t ask you to give up Sherlock. I wouldn’t do that to you. Not- I really didn’t want him dead. I swear I did not. I was there to get information from Magnussen. I had no idea what he had, or where he had it. I was there to threaten him.”

John listened to her quietly, taking in what she was saying without putting much faith in it. “Sherlock would never have hurt you. I cannot understand why you shot him. He would never- _never_ have hurt you. You didn’t need to protect yourself from him.” He struggled to picture the same hands on the wheel, the same hands that would hold his child, pulling the trigger. It just didn’t mesh, there was a total disconnect in his mind. 

“He would never have harmed you,” he repeated absently. 

“It wasn’t about harming him, John. It wasn’t. It was about protecting all of us in a larger picture. Magnussen is more dangerous than anything you have ever faced. Please, don’t dismiss that. I had very little time. I shot him where I felt he had the best chance of surviving and I succeeded in that. He’s had a hell of a time of it and I wish I could take away that suffering… but I was doing my damnedest to protect us all. I had- there was no time. I called the ambulance. I’m sorry.” 

John pressed a hand over his lips and closed his eyes. “What is it, Mary, about me that people don’t trust? I mean, really. What is it? Sherlock didn’t let me, _me_ in on his stunt there with dying and all, but he trusted his parents, and the homeless network. You… you supposedly loved me enough to make me your husband, but you wouldn’t let me in on _this_. After everything I told you about myself, all the things I let you in on…” 

He pressed his knuckles to his teeth and savored the small pain of it. It was one hell of a stretch for Mary to claim that she’d succeeded in her efforts. “I started his heart back with my hands, Mary. You succeeded because I saved him.” 

Mary took in a sharp breath, “I love you and I love him… it is not my fault he sneaked out of the hospital, John. That- that is not my fault. It’s not. He- I had no control over that part.”

John looked over at her then, speaking softly. “Do you know that he was worried you were going to hurt me? He couldn’t figure you out, and congratulations there, but he was trying to protect me. That’s why he left. But no, you couldn't have known he’d do that. He died on the table not an hour after you shot him though. Look, I understand what you are trying to tell me. If you were, I don’t know, a member of my unit talking about this or… god anyone other than my _wife_ …” 

He shook his head sadly and looked down at his lap. “I am trying to see it through your eyes, Mary, I am. It’s just… he’s been in such pain, and he nearly-” he drew in a sharp breath and made himself quiet, not wanting to fall apart all over again. 

Mary nodded, “I’m sorry.” There was nothing else to say in that moment. John understood, but he didn’t. She fell silent as they drove to the hospital.

When they finally arrived, John did not immediately get out of the car. He sat up and opened the door, turning back to look at Mary. He lingered, just taking her in, studying her face. “I ah,” he whispered, nearly reaching for her, “take...take care of yourself, Mary. Please. Keep…” he trailed off, pressure tight at the back of his throat. He nodded to her and then swiftly pushed himself out of the car, gently shutting the door behind him and walking inside without looking back. 

It took a few minutes leaning against the wall inside the hospital doors to gather himself. When he finally made his way back to Sherlock’s room, he was mostly together. He leaned on the door frame and called out Sherlock’s name softly.

Sherlock looked up, pretending to blink sleep out of his eyes. He’d just sneaked back in from seeing Magnussen under the nurses noses. “Hey, how are you?” He yawned. “How are Mary and the baby?”

John pulled the picture out of his wallet and walked in, shutting the door. He gave Sherlock a true smile, his first one in weeks, as he handed it over. “Baby is… perfect. Mary was… she looks tired, but she’s in good health. Wanted to come and see you.”

Sherlock gazed down at the picture, a small smile on his face. “Amazing how something so alien looking turns into a human being. A tiny little person in miniature. The way cells split, divide, change… it’s amazing.”

John nodded, sitting down beside Sherlock and watching him as Sherlock looked at the first picture of John’s child. “Yeah… yeah I think so too. You were sleeping when I came in, that’s good, you should keep doing that I think. You feeling okay?”

Sherlock shrugged, “Woke up earlier, nearly got out of the bed before I realized I wasn’t in Serbia. Terrifying…”

John reached a hand forward, wrapping it around Sherlock’s wrist and giving a gentle squeeze. “It… it will slow down, Sherlock. It will. I’m sorry though, it’s miserable to deal with.”

Sherlock nodded as he clutched the picture. “Could we- will you hang it where I can see it?”

John set his eyes to Sherlock as he considered him. It was… unexpected, to say the least, that Sherlock was so fixated on the baby. John would have put bets that he’d have all but ignored the pregnancy until there was an actual, screaming newborn demanding attention. He leaned back, watching Sherlock with the picture. His head tipped in the barest nod, standing and grabbing a small roll of medical tape. Soon enough, he had the picture fixed to the wall beside his friend, easing back down quietly in his chair, quietly considering him. 

Sherlock curled to his side to look at the picture and John. “I think it will help… when I wake up. The picture I mean. Why would my brain put a picture of a scan up? It wouldn’t.” His words were sleepy and his eyes were drifting closed. “Going to be a handful, no matter what.”

John’s lips twitched up in a gentle smile, considering for a moment what his life would be like in a few months time. Mary or not, there would be a newborn, his newborn, and it was both incredible and terrifying. He had no idea the sort of father he’d be, but he would do it with his best efforts. 

Sherlock was drifting back down to sleep, and so John made himself comfortable, shifting in his chair so that he could look at the image on the wall. It was the greatest gift to have something other than death and betrayal to focus on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well lovelies. Raison is finished. We put the last words to paper earlier today. Twenty chapters in total. Just five more to edit and hand over to you.
> 
> There is a post season three story in the works that will only partially be a part of the Word Play series since it diverges over into the realm of _things that have not happened yet_. It and Raison will go in another collection of their own since Raison can be left as is (or followed into _De Ses Cendres_ )


	16. Chapter 16

The next several days were cycles between a good, alert Sherlock, and a man so terrified and violent he had to be restrained. Sherlock’s brain seemed to be rebelling on him, consistently throwing him back to his cell in Serbia. In an effort to curb the fluctuations, he was set on a schedule of anti-anxiety medication. 

Within a few days, the medication had a marked effect. Sherlock was still having violent waking moments, where he came up screaming, but he came back to himself a little quicker.

John sat across from Mark as the three of them discussed Sherlock’s condition, sometime after noon, ten days since the scan. Sherlock had endured physical therapy, and he’d been able to sustain his own nutritional needs without assistance for nearly four days. 

Mark smiled at Sherlock as he closed his chart. “I think if we can get you walking the halls for the next week, I’d be willing to let you go home. Perhaps in as few as three days. The primary concern here, though, are these moments of confusion.” Sherlock had bristled at the usage of ‘flashbacks,’ and so Mark did his best to avoid using the term. 

He looked over to John, who was already shaking his head. “I’m going with him, I can keep him safe. I think he’ll have far fewer in his own bed than he does here. Though, of course, that’s up to Sherlock.” He looked over at the man in the bed, sitting up with proper night clothes on, and went quiet as he handed him the floor. 

Sherlock pondered everything that had been said and discussed. It took him a few minutes to reach a conclusion. When he finally had his mind settled, he looked up at Mark. “You and John have saved my life and I am and always will be grateful for that. But I would like to leave and not see your face when I wake up for quite some time.”

He turned to take in John and nodded. “I would give nearly anything to have us both back home in Baker Street.”

John smiled as Mark laughed. “Well, the sentiment is the same on my end. I’m taking my wife to the beach when you lot have cleared out. If you are both comfortable with this plan, then I will sign off that you can leave Against Medical Advice, as your brother has assured I will not see any legal issues at a later date. John, I do need to tell you that weapons should not be in the home, and he should never be allowed to sleep unattended until this has calmed.” 

John was already nodding. He’d known that. Sherlock was a damned handful that he’d have honestly struggled with had he his full strength, but only when still awash with sleep. He’d had little trouble getting him back to himself when he woke up properly. 

“I… yeah, I’ve got it, Mark, thanks. We will be alright. Sherlock went through this with me for a bit,” though not on a physical level, but it hardly mattered, “we always manage. We’ll manage. So, up and walking, all that, and we can get him home. Can we discontinue fluids, watch him sustain himself here for a few days?”

Mark smiled and stood up, disconnecting the drip himself. “Keep the port for meds, in fact, it should likely be changed out and he should go home with one. You lot are fortunate for elder brothers in high places. That way he can keep on the morphine, and if things get really bad, you can give him an intravenous dose of sedative.” He shook his head, looking back down at the chart. “Never discharged a patient like this, it’s odd.” He gave them a fond smile and looked to Sherlock. “I hope you will talk to John. I really do. This business with trauma, it will not just go away. That will fester and it will get worse. I know you don’t like talking to me about it, I hope you will talk to him.” 

He got to his feet then, clapping his hands once. “Right then, gents, I’m off to rounds. You know how to reach me.” 

Sherlock waved him out and turned back to John. “Baker Street. Mrs. Hudson fussing… Mycroft invading. Lestrade with cases.” He rubbed his hands together. “Now, I suppose I’m supposed to be walking.” He pushed to his feet from the chair. He’d shown an increase in range each day and it was obvious in the way he moved, he hoped for three days rather than a week. Nevermind he’d made it down to the cafe next door and back… but he’d sneaked around in a wheelchair for part of that claiming a want to take a shower.

John got to his feet, not offering an arm. Sherlock wouldn’t take it unless he was falling. He simply allowed Sherlock his freedom, close enough to catch him if he stumbled, far enough that it was not an unnatural distance for two close friends to travel together. 

He handled Sherlock in the way he’d wanted to be handled when he was down. It was difficult to see the man who ran all of London like a play yard struggling to take simple steps, but it was a vast improvement on watching him struggle to breathe. 

“Make it to the end of the hall and back, and I’ll have Molly pick up Speedy’s,” he quipped, brushing his shoulder against Sherlock’s bicep. 

Sherlock looked down at his friend with a small smirk. “It’s a deal.” He wanted to push himself, and for a moment his strides were quicker. He forced himself to slow down. Sherlock took his time getting to the end of the hall. He leaned there for a few moments as he smiled to John.

“Just going back now and I’ll have Speedy’s.”

John smiled at him, watching Sherlock’s color closely, noting how tired he already was. “Come on, you, I’m not carrying your tall arse back to the room. You ran me with a limp and a cane,” he winked at him, hoping a bit of ribbing would take Sherlock’s mind off how tired he was. John pulled out his mobile and texted Molly even as they stood there, asking her to run the errand for them. 

Sherlock smirked as he drawled, “Yes, but yours was psychosomatic.” He pushed back off of the wall and started the trek back. By the time he got back to his room, it was all he could do to climb back in bed and collapse there. He closed his eyes. “Now I’m starving and exhausted.”

The next few days passed in a welcome pattern. Sherlock would wake, sometimes with Serbian on his tongue, more than often not, and they would eat, stretch, and walk. Molly would bring food once a day from somewhere outside the hospital, and John would happily accept a warm hug from her, more than not he’d take a moment to tip his face down to her shoulder and lean against her. She never demanded that he speak, and she never said a word about it, remaining solid and steady for him to take a moment of quiet comfort out of Sherlock’s line of sight. 

By the fourth day, even John would have medically cleared Sherlock to return home. He was so sure they’d be allowed to leave, that John put Sherlock in the shower and took to packing up their things. He was nearly bouncing on his feet in anticipation of Mark’s visit, both eager and worried to take Sherlock back to Baker Street. 

Sherlock was just exiting the shower when Mark came in. He shook his head at the ease with which Sherlock strolled back into the room, still mostly naked. Sherlock’s movements belied how weak he still was in some areas, but Mark was beginning to finally see ‘The Hat Detective.’

“Don’t suppose you gentlemen are ready to go home, are you?”

Sherlock smiled as he pulled a long sleeved shirt on, buttoning it and straightening his cuffs before slipping into trousers and tucking it in.

Mark looked over to John. “Does he always wander around in his pants?”

“You are fortunate he’s that much on,” John replied without putting much attention on Sherlock, quite accustomed to his antics. He looked at the paperwork in Mark’s hand and to the bags by the door, giving him a tight nod. This was good, it truly was, but it was also intimidating. He would be so much more accessible now and would no longer have the excuse of Sherlock’s needs to put aside his thoughts on his own life. 

“Yeah, home would be good. He’s ready. Thank you for all your help, Mark. Honestly.” 

“Good, glad to hear it. Thought I’d bring these by myself and get you booted out of here. There’s a wheelchair outside the door and I’m going to walk you out myself. I took the liberty of calling the elder Holmes for a car. Thought that would take a bit of stress off you two as far as getting home.” 

Mark settled in on the edge of the bed next to Sherlock and showed him where to sign. He handed all the discharge papers, including some personal notes over to John when they were through.

“Ready?”

Sherlock appropriately fussed about the chair on the way down, and John was, for once, glad of Mycroft’s men there to handle bags so he could rein in the man. Sherlock hadn’t been able to snark and fuss at people who didn’t matter in far too long, and the backlog was letting loose in all of Sherlock’s juvenile glory. 

“Yes, yes, he’s a bastard and the car is old. How dare Mycroft not send the best for your Highness?” he grumbled, closing the door behind him as he loaded in next to Sherlock. 

Baker Street had been cleaned and freshened up that day. Even John could tell that the lemon polish had been taken to the wood and the dusting had been done. It smelled of fresh linen and open windows, the hoovering had all been handled. John smirked at the state of the kitchen. The table had been left alone, but the rest was clean and there was a note on the fridge in Mycroft’s handwriting. John helped Sherlock to his chair and then dropped into his own, frowning as he caught sight of the crescent moon bottle on the table at his side. 

Sherlock watched him. He was silent for a minute before he spoke. “You should call her. At least let her know you’re here. Might need a few more changes of clothes now too.”

“She’ll already know. She’s been calling several times a day since you were hospitalized again to check on your condition.” He looked away from the bottle and over to Sherlock, giving him a bit of a smile. It was good to see him in his chair again. They’d given him a loading dose of morphine before they’d moved him. “Pain okay? Those stairs were a bit much.” 

“It’s fine. I have missed this. I am selfishly glad you’re there.” Sherlock nodded to the chair. “I moved it so she wouldn’t sit in it.”

John’s brows knit in confusion. “Who, Mary? Oh, Janine. You- oh.” He tapped his finger on the familiar material of the chair, letting his mind wander. After a few minutes, he spoke again. “You know, I didn’t get out of this chair for thirty-six hours after I lost you. Greg came and hauled me out of it himself.” There was no emotion in his tone, just an observation of a moment that had passed years ago. He looked over to Sherlock, shaking his head. “You and that bloody train.”

“Train? The car in the underground you mean?” The morphine was making him slower than he’d like and the confusion showed on his face. “I never meant to make you suffer, John.”

John drew in a sharp breath and shook his head. “I- Christ, I know you didn’t do any of this maliciously, Sherlock. I… yeah that’s not-” he looked away from him, startled by the sudden weight of their conversation. He cleared his throat and looked over the flat, so unchanged since he’d left. Sherlock had always managed to fill any space he occupied completely, as though he was unable to keep his personality in the confines of his body. It brought a soft smile to John’s lips, despite the nature of their conversation. John had never trusted life enough to dig in anywhere and spread out. Every place he went, he could have vacated within an hour and no one would be any the wiser that John Watson had dwelled there. 

He’d hoped to change that when he married his wife. His jaw jumped for a moment before he drew in a deep breath and put his palms flat to his chair, pushing himself up as he deflected with a warm offer of “Tea?”

Sherlock nodded. “Yes, please.” He dragged a nearby blanket around him and buried himself in it. He was chilled frequently, the weight he’d lost doing him no favors as to staying warm.

John was quiet as he settled back in, several minutes later, with his mug of tea, watching Sherlock for a moment before letting his eyes slide to the window. 

Eventually he broke the silence. "I'm glad you're home." 

Sherlock gave a small hum. "As am I." He looked around the sitting room of Baker Street, touching on many of his possessions. "It has not been the same without you."

John sat with him like that until they'd finished tea. He set to cleaning up briefly before going to stand beside Sherlock. "You might want to consider lying down, have a bit of a rest. I know it's just the afternoon but that was a busy morning." He looked over to the sofa and took a slow, deep breath. "Can kip there, but it would be better if you properly got in bed."

Sherlock considered that and nodded, "Are you going to stay out here or will you come with me?" He chewed on his bottom lip thoughtfully. "You don't have to."

John reached down, taking Sherlock's hand and gently pulling him up out of his chair. He wrapped his arm around Sherlock's back, walking them to Sherlock's room where Mrs. Hudson had obviously washed the sheets and turned down the bed. He eased Sherlock down and then began to toe off his shoes. "You get comfortable and I'll work around you," he said softly, giving him a small smile. 

Sherlock was grateful for the help as he curled into the bed. He settled in his spot and faced the middle of the bed. He watched John as the man got ready to settle in with him. Sherlock was not so clueless as to ignore that this was a major shifting point. Comfort in the hospital had been one thing. John joining him in bed, home at Baker Street, was an entirely different animal. Even if it was just for rest and comfort.

John sighed as he got into a proper bed at long last, dousing the lights and moving to lie with Sherlock as they had in hospital, only now with more room and no wires to get in the way. He closed his eyes as he worked his fingers into Sherlock's hair, lightly rubbing his scalp. It was odd to be in Sherlock's room. He so rarely entered it that it felt almost like an invasion, but there was oddly nothing odd about lying with him in bed any longer. 

Sherlock hummed in relief as he wrapped his arm around John's waist. His hand curled over John's hip as they lay there. His voice was soft as he closed his eyes. "I always suspected I would be loathe to share my bed with anyone. I find that you are not at all an unwelcome presence." He nuzzled close, near tucking against John's chest. "Thank you for coming home with me."

John hummed his agreement and went quiet, already beginning to drift to sleep. He was sure he could sleep for days if allowed to. Eventually he'd have to call Mary, he had nothing to wear outside of the few things in his bag, and those would not hold for long. He shifted slightly and murmured to him, "Wake me when you get up, might not hear you," unless, of course, Sherlock came up screaming again. 

Sherlock hummed his agreement. The sounds and smells of Baker Street, along with John in the bed with him, were large comforts. He found himself asleep within minutes. He slept without dreams or mind palace trips for the first time in years.

John was down hard, properly sleeping for the first time in countless days. 

Mrs. Hudson came up several hours later with a tray of nibbles and a roast for dinner, tucking the roast into the oven and the tray on the table in the sitting room. She quietly walked over to the door and listened, hearing nothing and smiling to herself. She made her way back downstairs and picked up her phone, looking at the clock again as she rang Mycroft. 

Mycroft answered his phone on the third ring as he continued to drown in paperwork he was catching up on. "Yes, hello?"

Mrs. Hudson smiled as she cupped the phone in both hands. "Mycroft, dear, I know you're busy. I won't take long. The boys are doing fine, only they've been asleep for hours and it looks as though Sherlock has a few pills he needs taking. Is there a schedule I could help with? I really don't want to wake John. He's finally sleeping, the poor thing." 

Mycroft took a deep breath. "Mrs. Hudson, thank you. Yes, there is a schedule, but I do not want you waking Sherlock. He- Mrs. Hudson he could be dangerous upon being woken. Let them rest as they will. He's not posed any threat after being awake a few minutes... But he has a tendency to grab people upon first waking. Once they've caught up on some rest I will see about having alarms set for them. Thank you for calling me."

"Dangerous? Sherlock? My Sherlock? He's never been before, Mycroft. Surely not. I'll not wake them, though, that's fine. I will call if anything needs your attention, dear." She rang off and shook her head, the very idea of Sherlock being a threat to her was absurd. With a small smile at Mycroft's antics, she set about tending to her flat, keeping an eye on the clock with a mind to wake John, at the very least, in the next few hours if they did not get up on their own. 

Sherlock came awake slowly. He looked around, trying to get a handle on himself. Baker Street, bedroom, John. John had asked something of him. He sat up on the edge of the bed after untangling himself from the man. He spoke softly, "John..."

It took a few minutes for him to hear Sherlock, so down deep into sleep that he had to struggle up, where typically he could come right up. He blinked slowly, dragging a hand over his face, sure he'd only been down a few minutes. "You okay," he asked, voice thick with sleep. 

"Yeah, ah, go back to sleep. You asked me to wake you though. I'm going to go take my medicine." Sherlock took a deep breath and made it to his feet, headed toward the lav.

John properly pulled himself awake and watched Sherlock leave, pushing himself up and stretching before getting to his feet. He looked at his watch and hissed, Sherlock was past due for all of his meds and was likely hurting. He swiftly moved out into the kitchen, grabbing a glass of cold water and returning to the bedroom where he had set Sherlock's pills on the night table. He measured out what Sherlock would need, waiting for him to return. 

Sherlock settled on the edge off the bed after he'd tended to his needs. He winced and relaxed after a moment. "I didn't want to wake you. My apologies, John." He gave a wan smile as he tried to rein everything in. "Didn't dream..."

John handed over the handful of pills and shook his head. "I wanted you to wake me. Take these and then we will get you a bit to eat, but then let's go back to bed." 

He watched Sherlock take his medication and nodded, "Okay, going to get you something to eat. Want to come sit in your chair?"

Sherlock nodded. "Still feel exhausted." He moved to his feet, giving a small sigh as he stretched. He made his way to his chair and curled up in it. Sherlock closed his eyes as he rested his head on the arm of the chair.

John poked his head back out of the kitchen. "There is fruit and cheese on the table there, or a roast in the oven that looks amazing. What do you feel like eating? Should try a little of the roast at least, will help build you up. Unless you feel sick." 

Sherlock hummed, "Bit of everything. Not a massive plate... but a little bit of everything." He sighed as he shivered. "I forgot how drafty it is in here if there isn't a fire going properly."

John popped back into the kitchen and made them plates, carrying Sherlock's out with hot tea and setting it to his side. He put his own plate in his chair and then went about the swift task of lighting a fire, looking back over and nodding at the food. "Eat. That will help warm you up while this gets going."

Sherlock sat up and pulled his plate into his lap. He tucked into the food and gave a small hum of appreciation. "Mrs. Hudson... Oh how I could have used her cooking in hospital. The food there is truly revolting."

John settled in and ate slowly, keeping an eye on Sherlock's progress. He finished his food before Sherlock did and cleaned up, setting the tray of food back in the fridge, smiling at how clean it was. He leaned against the door after he tucked the food away, pulling his mobile from his pocket and finally sending Mary a text. 

_I have him home._

Mary's text was not long in coming.

_I heard he'd been released. Would you like me to bring some more of your things over? I could drop them with Mrs. Hudson if you're not up for seeing me yet. I would like to see you though. I love you._

Sherlock finished his food and tea. He let out a small, satisfied sound. He moved to his feet and carried his plate to the kitchen for once.

"Mary wants to come by," John blurted out, suddenly pushing his phone into Sherlock's hands. In a rare moment of weakness, he tipped his forehead to Sherlock's shoulder and closed his eyes, breathing as calmly as he could. "Any time I need to interact with her, I'm torn in so many directions I can't grab a thought. I miss her terribly and I'm still so furious with her. I want to forgive her, and then I feel a total fool for thinking so. I- just- she wants to see you." 

Sherlock blinked. He reached up and pulled John into his lap without thought, wrapping his arms around him. "You have every right to be angry. You do. She lied to you and she shot me. But she had very little time to make a very heavy decision. Think about where she shot me John, as a doctor. Think about it. She shot me in the liver. Yes, she nicked my inferior vena cava, but in the overall picture, she shot me in a place that has only an eight percent mortality rate." 

He cleared his throat as he worked his hand through John's hair. "She had no way of knowing I would traipse about London and tear my stitches. My collapse was my own fault. But she has done everything in order to protect you, the man she loves, and your child who she carries. She went about it in a poor way... I'll give you that. But she loves you.”

John tucked his face against Sherlock's neck, breathing slow and deep. He had considered everything that Sherlock was saying, which had been the only way he'd been able to interact with her at all. "I know... I know... I'm trying. I-" he shook his head and just leaned against him. It felt a bit foolish to be in Sherlock's lap as he was, but at the moment, he couldn't be bothered with it. 

"You traipsed about London to protect me. Hardly something to scoff at."

Sherlock nuzzled his face against John's hair. "Not scoffing at it... but she couldn't have known I'd do it. It's not her fault. You don't have to forgive her, or see her right now. You don't. I'm not going to make you. But I would invite you to talk about it with me when you feel like it. Pay close attentions to her words and actions before you decide to completely dismiss her."

John nodded as he bit down on the inside of his cheek. "I... I don't mind seeing her, I need things from the house and she wants to see you. I'm not going to leave with her though. I don't want to go with her. I am staying here." 

He made no move to take his phone back from Sherlock, reaching out and fisting his hand in Sherlock's shirt and trying to relax.

Sherlock nodded and kissed John's head in a distracted way as he texted Mary.

_Please bring John clothing. We have a nice roast and a fire going. SH_

Mary texted back a few minutes later.

_I'll be round in a bit, Sherlock. Thank you._

John stayed just as he was for a full five minutes, letting himself enjoy the peace for just a while. Sherlock was familiar and as safe as it got, and John was exhausted and unsure.

Finally he stretched and eased out of Sherlock's lap. "Thanks, I've... yeah I'm not handling it well. Am trying, though."

Sherlock nodded at him. "I don't blame you." He leaned back in his chair. He closed his eyes. "I'm so tired of not being completely well."

John nodded, "I know, it's been a lot to deal with. You're on the mend." He paced over to the window, looking out on the street in the late evening light.

"I feel as though I could sleep for days."

Sherlock hummed at that. He sighed softly and pulled his blanket over him. "I can understand that feeling. We'll go back to bed soon. I promise."

John moved to the back of Sherlock's chair and looked down on him. He'd lost weight and was still far more pale than was typical, even for Sherlock, but he was still the same man. John reached down and gently sank his fingers into Sherlock's hair, sliding down until he was brushing the back of Sherlock's neck. The man had been stuck in a horrid bed and even just that soft touch allowed John to feel the tension in the muscles there. 

He found a particularly painful feeling lump just to the side of Sherlock's neck and sank his pad into the coiled tissue, starting to gently work out the knot. That would give him something, at least, to focus on until Mary arrived. 

Sherlock let out a low moan of relief and shifted forward just enough for John to work at the knot more. He'd needed that for ages and hadn't realized it. Sherlock shifted further as John worked at him. He gave little sighs and moans as the knots were worked out. His head slowly drooped as his neck loosened. He was melting into his chair bit by bit.

By the time Mary arrived, John was using both hands on Sherlock, mapping his musculature against the mental structures of anatomy in his mind. It was soothing to know he was doing something productive for Sherlock, working along the familiar lines of tissue, working into the nerve endings that served as pressure points. 

His hands stilled as he heard Mrs. Hudson letting Mary in downstairs. "She's here," he said softly to Sherlock, smoothing his palms over the heated skin he'd been kneading into. 

Sherlock murmured at that. "Okay..." He grabbed one of John's hands and squeezed. He was gentle as he looked up. "Alright?"

Mary headed up the stairs with John's bag of clothing. She moved into the sitting room with a soft, "Hello." She toted a cake along as well. "I brought you boys a treat.

Sherlock gave a tired smile as Mary looked up at them. She was struck immediately by how right the two of them looked together like that. She gave them a smile even as she took in how both of them looked. She wanted nothing more in that moment than to tuck them into bed together and soothe them to sleep.

"Oh boys, you look exhausted. I won't keep you... I just wanted to check on you and bring you some things. Is there anything I can do for either of you?"

John kept behind Sherlock, sweeping his eyes over Mary. His heart twinged painfully as he met her eye, giving her the barest suggestion of a nod in thanks. The cake was homemade and her expression appeared to be open and honest. How he longed to trust it. His mouth ran dry and he ached to say something, anything that would ease the pain in his chest and make all of this simply vanish. 

His hands fell away from Sherlock before he held them awkwardly at his sides, flexing his fingers nervously.

Sherlock moved to his feet and crossed the room to her. He wrapped her up in a hug and she was gentle as she returned it. His voice was soft.

"Thought you were going to stay for roast."

Mary smiled to him. "No. I'm going to wash up those plates while you two go back to bed, yeah? Take me a minute to do and I'll be out of your hair." 

Sherlock released her and Mary looked around him to John. "It's your favorite... The cake. Baked it when I learned you two got to come home."

John had rest a loose fist on the back of Sherlock's chair as he watched him get up and move to Mary, wrapping her in his arms. For a moment John's insides twisted, wondering if he was just that foolish to carry on with his anger. Mary had not requested that Sherlock hug her, nor had she pressured him in any way. He could have easily remained in his chair, instead dedicating the physical and mental energy to stand and move to her. 

John looked away, staring at a place on the floor to her side, willing himself to settle down. She was gentle with Sherlock, speaking softly and in no way attempting to stay or explain herself. It helped. 

Slowly his eyes slid to her abdomen, thinking of the little life there that he'd been so fortunate to see on screen not long ago. "Have you eaten? There is more in there than we could hope to get through before it goes off." He'd not intended for his tone to be so deadpan and quiet, nearly detached. It simply happened that way from his effort not to fall apart as he warred with the urge to fold his wife into his arms and scream at her until the ceiling caved all in the same turn.

Mary shook her head, "I haven't yet. No. I will gladly take a bit of roast off your hands. But you two look tired. How about I get some to take home with me?" She smiled to John as she moved to the sink. She gathered the plates to wash as Sherlock made his way back to John.

Sherlock touched John's hand and looked at him.

John kept his eyes to Mary even as Sherlock touched his hand. It was odd to watch her doing something so normal when the world had clearly stopped, at least for him. He drew in a sharp breath and looked over to Sherlock finally, nodding that he was okay to the unspoken question. "Why don't you go lie down?" He asked softly, eager to get into the bag she brought, hopeful that there was something comfortable there.

Sherlock nodded, slipping to the bedroom with a soft goodnight to Mary. 

Mary finished washing and rinsing the dishes. She laid them to dry on a tea towel and looked to John. 

"I brought all the things I could fit in the bag that I know you prefer. Favorite pyjamas, jumpers... those sorts of things." She pulled out the roast and some foil. "Can I do anything for you before I leave? I know I asked... only making sure.”

John reached out and gently touched the back of Mary's hand, brushing the pads of his fingers over her knuckles before letting his hand fall away. He did not meet her eye as he stood there, savoring the ability to be close for a few minutes, quiet and unsteady. He wanted to go back to Sherlock, he wanted to go home and crawl in bed with Mary...

He shook his head to answer her after a moment and stepped back, ending the moment of closeness. "No. That's... no, I'm fine," he said quietly, finally looking up and meeting her eye, failing to keep the incredible sadness that roared in his chest hidden from her.

Mary reached out and touched his hand. Her voice was gentle, face softening further. "We'll work on it. As slowly as you need. I- even if you want to come back I'm not going to make you give him up. I wouldn't. I couldn't." She nodded a bit to herself as she sliced a bit of roast off to take home.

She looked back up to John as she wrapped the roast and then wiped her hands on a towel. "I love you. You should get some rest." She touched his cheek for a moment as she stared at him, hiding none of the love, worry, or apology she had in her.

John found himself unable to speak as his throat swelled up on him at her touch. He nodded and stepped back, swiftly retreating from the kitchen, knowing she could show herself out. He was not about to have yet another emotional display around her, or Sherlock for that matter. It was unnerving to be so out of control of himself. 

He vanished into the lav and shut the door, suddenly wrenching open the taps so the white noise of flowing water would slide around him as he braced against the counter. He pressed the fingers of one hand to the bridge of his nose, squeezing tight as his composure snapped and he all but choked on his grief, carefully silent as he could manage as tears slid down his face. 

He allowed himself a few minutes of unrestrained sadness before clearing his throat and squaring his shoulders. He splashed water on his face and, by the time he'd dried off with the hand towel, he'd put himself physically back together, heading out for Sherlock's room.

Sherlock looked up at John came into the room. He smiled to him. "Bed's warm. Care to join me?"

The door downstairs could be heard shutting as Mary left the flat. Sherlock curled up with his pillow as he watched John. "Alright then?"

John stood at the foot of Sherlock's bed and looked the man over, scrubbing a hand over his hair. What the hell were they doing? Or rather, what the hell was he doing? Exhaustion dragged him down hard and he swallowed against the terribly unsettled feeling in his gut, moving without a word to the side of the bed and sitting down. His back was to Sherlock as he looked down at his lap, staring at his hands. 

"I don't know what I'm doing," he whispered, pained with that reality. John was a man of action, a man who knew what he wanted and went after it. It was jarring to suddenly have no direction, no idea what direction he even wanted to go in.

Sherlock was silent for a moment as he considered that. When he spoke his voice was soft. "I don't think any of us do, to be honest. I certainly don't, beyond trying to get better. I don't know what we're doing. I know that I love you, that I won't take you from Mary, but that I so selfishly want you at least part time..."

John scrubbed a hand over his face and nodded. "Today, I'm just going to sleep. That's... all I've got right now. I don't know what else to do." 

The bed was soft as he stretched out again, taking a moment to set the alarm on his phone and then plugging it in on the bedside. "I'll wake you when it's time for your pills," he assured before rolling on his side, his arms wrapped tight around himself in an unconscious effort to soothe what hurt.

Sherlock wrapped up more in the blankets. His voice was soft, "Alright, John. Sleep well." He snuggled down in the bed, tucking his head half under the pillow. He closed his eyes and let himself start to drift off. He was still tired and sleep sounded good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Amphi was kind enough to edit and let me have the day off. Tis my birthday woooo! So you get this early. -Symphony


	17. Chapter 17

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always, you can follow Amphi at [Amphigoriously](http://amphigoriously.tumblr.com) and Symphony at [DemonicSymphony](http://demonicsymphony.tumblr.com) over on tumblr.
> 
> Edit: If you've not read it and are interested in everything Sherlock tells John about Serbia in the chapter, read our story Lopov.

John and Sherlock spent the next few days simply eating and resting. For the most part neither spoke of anything important. John would sit in his chair and listen to Sherlock pluck at his violin, or he'd read the paper. At one point he even took to scrubbing every surface in the kitchen because he damn well needed something to do with his hands.

As the days moved forward their conversation turned to benign topics such as rubbish telly plots, which slid via amusing segue to Sherlock’s mold cultures. Towards the end of the week they’d watched a, frankly stupid, spy picture before heading to bed, and through Sherlock was deeply irritated with himself for it, the damned thing had poked at one too many of his less savory memories. Sherlock woke up screaming in the small hours, shaking and clawing at the bed. 

John bolted up, pulling on the bedside light. In his stumbling haste to get out of the bed and on his feet where he could better defend, he managed to rip the blankets from the bed, leaving Sherlock suddenly open to the colder air. 

"Sherlock!" he called out, blinking to focus in the soft light.

The dream had its talons in Sherlock’s mind, ripping him right out of their flat and crashing him hard against the floor in his cell, all the aches and pains from his captivity flaring to phantom life. 

_Hide. Defend. Escape._

Sherlock rolled off the bed and under it, searching for any object that could be utilized as a weapon. He found a dusty, long forgotten bokken near the headboard, constantly watching the intruder's feet, eyes narrowed as he waited for him to drift close enough to take the man _-5’6, twelve stone, weaker on the right-_ out at the ankles.

John cringed as Sherlock hit the floor, moving back from the bed and speaking slowly. "Sherlock," he whispered, keeping well back from the edge of the mattress and making no move to advance on him, "English, yeah? You're home. Baker Street." He crouched down low, trying to put himself at enough of a distance that Sherlock would be able to view his face from his defensive position on the ground, totally unaware that Sherlock had possession of a weapon.

Sherlock swept the bokken out from under the bed, screaming at John in Serbian. He shrank back as much as he could. Sherlock's breathing was ragged under the bed as he tried to figure out how to get out of the place he was trapped in.

John closed his eyes as he saw the weapon, taking a moment to breathe before speaking again, Pashto on his tongue. "Sherlock! Breathe. You are home, Sherlock. Can you not see my face?" He risked slinking lower to the floor, too far out for Sherlock to reach him. "Sherlock, it's John. You are okay."

Sherlock listened to him. He was silent for more than five minutes. When he answered it was in Pashto, "Not real. You always come to me. I'm getting out of here this time, John. I'm leaving. I don't care if it kills me."

John moved back to English as he got up, risking it and circling the bed. "Sherlock, I'm going to come over there and touch you. I'm real, and you are home, and I'd really appreciate it if you didn't have at me with that damned thing, okay? How am I going to carry a baby if you off me at the ankles?" 

It was a risk, but he was betting on Sherlock not wanting to hurt him in any form, regardless of how angry he was. Presumably Sherlock had never hallucinated someone else as John, so he would likely have no reason to attack. "Sherlock," he repeated as he rounded the bed at a distance, crouching just out of arm's reach, "I know you're scared. I swear I'm right here. Listen to me, I'm speaking English. Look at me, yeah? Really look at me. I am older. You can see it on my face, I know you can. You didn't hallucinate me older, did you?”

Sherlock slowly stuck his head out from under the bed. He furrowed his brow as he looked up at John. "No. I have not." The bokken was pushed out from under the bed. "We might ought to put the wooden sword somewhere..." He was slow getting himself out from under the bed. Dust bunnies clung to his hair and pyjamas. A small sigh of defeat sounded from the taller man.

John exhaled slowly, reaching out and taking the bokken away swiftly and tossing it aside. In the next moment he took hold of Sherlock's shoulders and sat him down, deeply worried about him. "You hit that floor hard, are you alright?" He asked calmly, startled with Sherlock's swift recovery from a very long moment of confusion. John stared at Sherlock's face, watching him closely for any sign of shock or injury. "Talk to me."

Sherlock laughed softly. "I finally snapped. I think I'm in Baker Street. Can't bloody well escape if I can't even tell where I am.”

 _Hell_. 

John swallowed down the disquiet and slid his hands up to carefully hold the sides of Sherlock's face, his fingertips brushing the shells of Sherlock's ears. "Sherlock," he said softly, brushing his thumbs along Sherlock's cheekbones, "where do you think you are?"

"We're still in that damned cell in Serbia. Where do you think we are? I've gone so far my own imaginary friend doesn't know where we are. Wonderful." Sherlock scoffed and shook his head.

John took a slow, deep breath as he backed up and pushed Sherlock down onto his back. He circled the bed and went back to his side, climbing in under the blankets and pulling Sherlock to him with one arm, the other reaching down and easing Sherlock's shirt up. "Look," he whispered softly, tracing a finger over the long bisecting scar on his abdomen, "do you hallucinate scars? Your own scars? New ones?"

Sherlock shivered at the touch and sucked in a breath as he watched. "Never felt this real when you touched me before..." He watched John carefully. "I miss you. I miss you more than I'll ever be able to tell you now."

John could hardly stand that Sherlock believe himself still under torture, still in the care of the men who hurt him so horrifically. "Why won't you be able to tell me, Sherlock?" His voice was quiet as he drew Sherlock's shirt back down, trying to restore his modesty somewhat.

"Because you aren't real. You're just here in my mind. I never got to tell you how I feel, or hug you or kiss you, or any of those things people do with someone they love." Sherlock let out a soft sigh. "I'm sorry, John. I failed you."

John wrapped his arms around Sherlock in swift response, pulling him in close and hugging him very tightly to his chest. He would do anything, _anything_ to help pull Sherlock out of his fear. 

"Sherlock, I am right here. You are right here with me. You did not fail me, okay? I know all of it. Lazarus, right? You and Mycroft set that up. I've been… I hit you, remember? You penciled that damned moustache on and I didn't find it funny. Look," he took Sherlock's hand and pressed it over his own heart, letting him feel the rhythmic beating of the muscle under his palm, "You are right here with me, Sherlock." 

Sherlock sucked in a sharp breath and his eyes focused on John. "The baby. You're going to have a baby. You're _married_. I gave the speech at your wedding... I got shot. Oh. _Oh_ , Mary." Sherlock tucked his head against John. "I didn't hurt you? Did I?"

John exhaled in quiet relief, shaking his head. "No, I'm fine. I've got you, I'm sorry you woke up like that. Everything is okay," he slid his fingers into Sherlock's hair, softly touching him to keep him grounded.

Sherlock leaned into him gratefully. "That was terrifying. I thought I'd completely lost it. Only I had but in an entirely different way."

John filled his lungs and closed his eyes, "No, Sherlock, you've not lost it. This is… just part of it all. You are going to be alight, you really are. It just takes time." It was incredibly difficult to see Sherlock struggling so hard. "Can you sleep? Let's see if you can sleep, get a bit more rest before we face the day. You've physical therapy to do, and I think Mark is going to come and make sure we've been working on your lung capacity. It's going to be alright."

Sherlock sighed in a resigned manner. "I can try. You should rest. I'm going to be alright. I'm done trying to escape and take people out while I go."

John held on to Sherlock for the next few hours, trying to help the man sleep before the day had to begin. As he'd suspected, it was a difficult stretch ahead of them. Sherlock was thrown into intensive physical therapy for the remainder of the week, waking and having a coffee before the door would chime and an overly cheerful Ms. Hudson would lead the PT upstairs. John always kept to himself as Sherlock worked on his mobility and strength, speaking only when it was clear Sherlock was about to quit or snap on the woman. 

Mark came to visit, pleased with Sherlock's progress, altering a few of Sherlock's medications but otherwise just giving him a pat on the back and encouraging him to keep on. John kept Sherlock fed, grousing at him to eat even when Sherlock had gone utterly silent and petulant, flouncing about in his dressing gown and abandoning even his violin in favor of extended sulking. 

John spent most of his down time either napping or thinking about Mary, and Sherlock spent his reading up on Lestrade's cases and furiously typing scathing emails to him. They managed another week of something like peace, without flashbacks or waking night terrors, before it all began to fall apart. Sherlock had been in the shower when the water suddenly snapped from pleasantly warm to bitterly, painfully cold, the power cutting off at the same time, making him startle and trip. He hit the wall and crashed down on the floor of the lav, far out of John's earshot.

 _Cold, wet, dark. Come to wake me then. Get out of the cold spray. Find a weapon, anything. Get out, they’re going to kill you if you don’t get out._ Sherlock felt around and moved to his feet, hands wrapping around the bar for the towels. 

A moment later he’d wrenched the bar off the wall and let the door open slowly. _Darkness. They’ve cut the power again to frighten you. Not this time. Keep moving, use stealth, be prepared to fight._ Ambient light filtered in through from outside and Sherlock crept down the hallway, trailing water behind him. The bar held up, ready to swing at the barest hint of movement.

John had just finished pulling on trousers when the lights clicked off. He swore, grabbing a torch from the night table and walking out into the sitting room. There were only a few minutes of daylight remaining. Though he’d said nothing to John about it, the doctor knew Sherlock had had a great amount of difficulty controlling his pain throughout the day. It had been a long and difficult day for them both, leaving Sherlock pale and shaking despite John’s best efforts to help him.

"Sherlock! Just going down to check the breaker," he called out, no idea that the man was having a drastic flashback, prowling about with a weapon.

 _Borovic, just shy of two metres. Aim for the middle of the head._ Sherlock swung with everything he had. The towel bar successfully slamming into the bookcase near John's head, having sailed right over the much shorter man. _Back up, new assailant, shorter. How short?_ Sherlock's arms were still jarred and aching from the force with which he'd hit the bookcase. He grit his teeth against the pain. _Time to hurt later, move._

John swore as he ducked, diving out of the way as books along with various odds and ends rained down from the now dented bookshelf. The torch hit the floor spinning and throwing light in haphazard flashes through the room. "Sherlock!" He called out, unable to see the man, blinking in the inky orange haze of the room, "Sherlock, where are you?" 

He began to scoot back, shifting to put the wall behind him, heart racing as he realized that Sherlock was both armed and unaware of his surroundings. John could take Sherlock in a fight, but with the element of surprise on Sherlock's side, he was in a world of danger.

Sherlock panted in the darkness. He registered words but no meanings. The terrified and determined man retreated into the kitchen, muscle memory moving around obstacles. _Careful. Find the door._ Sherlock crept across the floor, one hand out. He brushed the coat as he made it close to the door. His fingers ran over it and he eased it off the rack. _No shoes. It's going to be painful. It’s freezing out there._

John scrambled for the torch, grabbing it up and feeling his stomach sink as Ms. Hudson called up the stairs. "Stay downstairs, Ms. Hudson! Go in your flat and lock the door, I'll handle the lights!" If Sherlock was this lost, he had no idea what he'd do if he encountered her. John could take a beating, Ms. Hudson could not. 

He moved forward, shining the light in the dusky flat, searching him out. Puddles of water led John into the kitchen where he stopped at the door, suddenly realizing that Sherlock could potentially possess a knife. "Sherlock, it's John," he called out, moving very cautiously.

Sherlock eased the coat onto himself in silence. The towel bar was gripped tighter as he stood again. The smell of the Belstaff made him hesitate, brow furrowing in the darkness. _Familiar, fits well._ His hand went into the pocket and closed around a wallet. He traced the well worn leather, familiar creases and ridges triggering his brain. _My wallet, my coat, Baker Street, kitchen. John, did I hurt John?_

"John?"

John shone the light in Sherlock's direction, finding him standing against the counter, the bar in his hands. "Hey," he whispered, "Sherlock, can you put that down for me? You're safe," he said as gently as he could possibly manage. "You are safe. I need you to put that bar down."

Sherlock put the bar down and slid it away from him. He wrapped his coat around him, shivering hard since the cold was beginning to set in. He leaned against the cabinet and looked at the floor. "Did I hurt you?"

John reached out and grabbed the bar, moving it behind him before he stood. The doctor moved to Sherlock's side, reaching out and touching his hand. "You're freezing, come on, let's have you up," his words were gentle as he gave Sherlock his hand and helped him to his feet. "It's alright, Sherlock, come on." 

The damp man was pulled along with him, the pair only stopping at the lav to grab a towel on their way to Sherlock's room. He wrapped it over Sherlock's shoulders, keeping his sodden hair from dripping further onto his coat. Sherlock sat down in the chair in his room while John grabbed the duvet and draped it over him to ward off the shivering he’d started. 

"Are you hurt?" John asked in gentle tones as he started to fish for clothes in the darkness.

Sherlock's voice was quiet. "I shouldn't be here. I should be somewhere I can't hurt people. Everything hurts right now. I've hurt all day."

John moved quietly, pulling the duvet down as he helped ease Sherlock's arms out of the Belstaff. "No, you belong right here." The answer was calm as John pulled a long sleeved shirt over Sherlock's head. "I know you are hurting, I've canceled therapy for tomorrow. You've pushed yourself so hard." 

He shook out the Belstaff and cleared his throat as he hung it on the door to dry, handing over trousers for Sherlock to put on himself. "You didn't hurt me, I'm fine. Everything is fine. The power cut off and it scared you is all. A bit of sleep will help.”

Sherlock eased into the trousers before he rubbed the towel over his head. Getting to his feet was exhausting but he moved to the bed in the dim light. Once there Sherlock wasted no time crawling under the covers and closing his eyes. "My apologies, John."

John shook his head as he found Sherlock's pain medication, handing over pills before he went to sort the power. A fuse had blown and it took John a while to set it right. 

He was quiet as he finally made his way back to Sherlock, the lights on and functioning again. Sherlock's room was still dark and John was hesitant to wake him if he was sleeping, going to sit at the bedside and keep watch.

Sherlock was not asleep, but he stayed silent and quiet, letting John think he was down. He was a danger to everyone. John could hold his own, but if he ever thought Mrs. Hudson was a threat... Sherlock took in a sharp breath before he remembered he was playing asleep.

John hummed quietly, his voice gentle as he spoke in the darkness. "Talk to me. Just talk to me, Sherlock. Don't go in your own mind, I know this is upsetting." He leaned forward, getting to his feet and climbing into the bed now that it was clear Sherlock was awake. "Let me help."

"I'm going to hurt someone. You can hold your own against me. Mrs. Hudson cannot." Sherlock wrapped his arms around himself.

"You are not going to hurt her," John said without pause or doubt, "I'm here with you, and I'll keep her safe while you work through this. It will not last forever. You are not going to hurt anyone, Sherlock." 

He reached out, sinking his fingers in Sherlock's hair. "Just try and relax, it's all going to be fine."

Sherlock curled into John after another few minutes his face tucking in against John's chest. "I would have taken your head off, John."

"I know," John responded, quiet and gentle as he carded his fingers through Sherlock's hair. "I know you are dangerous, but so am I. It's going to be okay. I don't underestimate you, okay? I know it's dangerous, but you belong here. If it gets worse, I'll have Ms. Hudson stay with her sister." 

He hummed and leaned to the side, clicking on the light. "Was it to do with the cold water?"

Sherlock nodded. "Water went cold... they used to wake me up dousing me with buckets of cold water. It was also how they 'cleaned me up." He ran a hand over his face. "I'm so tired of reliving it."

John swore under his breath, closing his eyes as he accepted that reality. He reached down taking Sherlock's hand. John pulled it to his lap and slid Sherlock's sleeve up. Sherlock always, without fail, was dressed in attire sure to hide his scars these days. He'd done so since his return, and John had simply failed to see it. His fingers trailed over the burn scar there. 

"Tell me," he whispered, gentle in his touches, trying to soothe. "It may help if you tell me."

Sherlock took a slow, deep breath. He started at the beginning, the cramped little room, the uniform, the plans, the escape and recapture. It took the better part of the next three hours, with stops when Sherlock was overwhelmed. By the time it was over, Sherlock was certain he knew where the words about feeling like a wrung out cloth came from.

John sat there, hearing the world carry on outside, while he kept his arms around Sherlock and put his focus on breathing. The silence lingered as he tried to find words. Sherlock's nearly clinical descriptions of what had been done to him painted all too clear of a picture. 

When he spoke again, his voice was rough and dry. "Christ," he breathed, pulling Sherlock tighter against him, "I- alright. Alright. Well, it's no bloody wonder you've been having a hard go of it then, Sherlock."

Sherlock tucked his head against John's neck and closed his eyes. He worked to steady his breathing even as he sniffled. "It was- you were always there, always helping. Who else would I conjure up?"

John carefully trailed his fingers over Sherlock's back, trying to steady him after such a harrowing recount. How was he to respond to that? His mind wandered to his own activities when Sherlock was under torture. He must have started seeing Mary around then. 

"There… there are a lot of things I wish went differently, wish didn't happen. That doesn't do anyone any good, but there it is. I- thank you for coming home. Christ- I'm glad you made it home."

Sherlock nodded against John as he held close to him. "I- I had to. I couldn't stay gone. I think even if it had still been dangerous I would have come home soon after that. I couldn't wait to see you again."

John stared up at the ceiling, and soon a faint smile touched to his lips. "You were rather a prick about it all, you know." Sherlock and that damned French waiter bit would have been hilarious, had the context been different. "I should have known she was… should have seen in her reaction to you..." he cleared his throat as he was suddenly overwhelmed, adjusting his grip on Sherlock. 

"I would have come with you, you know? Faked my own death, no one would have been surprised if I- if they found me. I'd have come."

Sherlock wrapped his arm around John's waist. "I could not have borne it if something happened to you. It-" He shook his head. "It would have shattered me. I didn't take into account how much it would shatter you for me to do what I did and I will forever be sorry for that."

John closed his eyes and nodded. "I didn't realize you were… so surprised that I counted you as my best friend. I honestly didn't know that _you_ didn't know. That… explained quite a bit. Rather daft of you, but you are an idiot when it comes to people." He allowed the warm humor to seep into his tone, ribbing Sherlock gently to try and ease the cloying heaviness of their current topic.

Sherlock let out a sound of fond annoyance. "Yes, well... I have no argument for that. I am hopelessly lost when it comes to people and their myriad of emotions sometimes."

John just smiled into the darkness for a moment, enjoying the sound of Sherlock's voice. However, there was the topic at hand that had to be addressed. 

"My second deployment," he began, voice just over a whisper, "It went badly. I-" he paused to clear his throat, his heart beating slightly faster. "That's when I began living alone, and decided I didn't need a flatmate. I put one of my men through a window on the second floor when I woke up to thunder, had a flashback. I was too stubborn to get help. I needed help. When… when I met you I decided to risk it, since I thought myself ah… incapacitated. I didn't think I could hurt anyone in the state I was in. All this to say, it… gets better. It really does. It will not always be like this, and you don't need to be ashamed."

Sherlock was silent for a few minutes. "I'm not ashamed. I am frightened. I am absolutely terrified I will hurt someone like this. I dropped someone out of the flat without having problems. What if I catch you off guard again? What if Mrs. Hudson scares me?"

John shook his head. "She won't. She is absolutely clear that she is not to be up here without me, and not to make any effort at waking you. As for me… that's a risk I get to choose, and I do. I choose it. I would not stay here if I honestly thought you'd badly hurt me. I wouldn't do that to you. I'm okay, and you are okay. Let me, just in this, Sherlock, let me help. Christ, let me do a little protecting for once, I'm losing my purpose here." 

Sherlock nodded as he took a few calming breaths. "Okay... alright. I'm just so scared. I don't want to hurt you- or anyone really. This is terrifying. My mind is not my own." He closed his eyes. "I just want to get better, all of me better."

John quite agreed with that. "Well, you've stopped dying on me. You've mastered breathing. You are up and walking. Eating. Drinking. You deduced your PT assistant to tears this morning. You've played your violin several days in a row. Nearly there, Sherlock. Nearly there."

Sherlock smiled at that after he looked up at John. "I will move past this. I will. It's just going to take time, right?" He rolled so he was looking at the ceiling. "It's like my brain isn't my own sometimes. I think that's the most frightening aspect of it all."

John stretched and shifted on the bed, letting Sherlock go, his arms up to the ceiling and his toes pointing down. They'd hardly moved in all the time it took Sherlock to explain. He scratched at his chest and nodded. "Yeah, It's bloody terrifying when that happens. I wish I had some easy fix for it. I think as you feel less physical pain, it won't be so easily triggered." 

Sherlock nodded to himself. "I think you're right. I was doing relatively well until all of this happened. I had moments, but nothing like this. Night terrors are one thing, completely disassociating from the present and living out the past in some way is another."

John nodded as he sat up, needing water and a bit to eat. "Pain… yeah pain makes it worse. And you've been bored, you've not been working. All things that exacerbate it. Just… just know I'm capable of handling this, alright? Even if you manage to get one over on me, I can deal with this. Now, it's been hours and you've been hurting. Let's feed you, get you some pain meds, and then let you finish that shower you were trying to take. Still have shampoo in your hair, it's stiff." 

Sherlock sat up and moved to the edge of the bed. A yawn overtook him before he stretched, his body popping in places it hadn't before he'd gone on his jaunt around the world. Minutes later found him in the kitchen where he piddled around. Fruit, meat, and cheese wound up on a plate as he flipped the kettle on before leaning back against the counter.

John followed him out and together they shared a small meal, complete with Sherlock's meds. John gave them a bit early, figuring him likely to need them after tearing up the lav and basically escaping. The rest of the afternoon passed easily. No more power issues, nothing remarkable. They watched the classic Frankenstein, because it was on and John could not wait for the commentary from his scientific friend. When they turned in for the night, John did not hesitate in wrapping his arms around Sherlock and pulling him close. 

Sherlock curled up against John, his arm wrapped around John's waist, face to John's chest. His body relaxed by increments as they lay there. Sherlock's voice was quiet, full of sleep. "Goodnight, John. Thank you.

John closed his eyes and allowed his mind to wander. He was eventually going to have to come to some solution with Mary, which would require they sit down and have it out, preferably when he wasn't bordering hysterics or about to crumble to ash at her feet. Christ, he'd been bloody pathetic. He trailed his fingers through Sherlock's hair absently as he thought of her. 

_'That was poor form on their part, here, let me help.'_

_He lay dazed on the kerb, blinking as his blood splattered over the cobbles, flowing free from his nose and eyebrow. His hands were shaking terribly as the adrenalin abated and the pain began to set in. The light caught in her blond hair, haloing her as she gripped hold of him with warm hands, smiling gently to him in clear sympathy._

_His heart squeezed as the lights went out, somehow trusting her to help._

He opened his eyes in the darkness, listening to Sherlock breathe. He'd loved her from the moment he'd seen her. She'd been next to him in hospital when he'd woken, calling him John and offering him tea. 

_Nicked your wallet. That's a lovely photo you've taken for your driver's._

He couldn't help but smile at the memory of her gentle teasing. The banter had been so much like Sherlock's it had made him twist with loss and want all in the same that he could hardly breathe. She'd handled John as though she'd always known him, even before they'd properly said hello. He allowed his mind to comb through the days he'd loved her before Sherlock had revealed himself, unaware of the slow slide of sleep that finally reached up and gently pulled him under.

Sherlock woke before John in the early morning hours. John's hand was in his hair and his other arm slung around Sherlock's waist. Sherlock nearly broke in that moment. His eyes closed again as he allowed himself to soak up the attention John paid him even while asleep.

Slow movements eased him out of John's grasp and he fled to the shower. He lit a candle just in case, setting it on the sink before stepping into the bracing cold on purpose. The sting of the shower helped him think. He had to think. 

Sherlock had no idea how much time passed as he searched through his mind palace. Jim following along behind him.

"Piss off." Sherlock finally said.

Jim rolled his eyes. "The answer isn't in here, you idiot. It's going to come down to them. You can't fix everything."

Sherlock shoved over a filing cabinet and stormed out. He came to in the shower shivering violently.

" _Sherlock_! I'm going to kick this bloody door in if you don't _answer me_!" John struggled to keep his breathing even, heart slamming against his ribs, fist pounding on the door. He'd been calling for Sherlock for the last three minutes without response and his mind was doing a grand job of supplying him with any number of things that could have gone horrifically wrong. "Sherlock, please!" 

Sherlock turned off the water with a shaking hand and stepped out. He managed to unlock the door before he sat down on the toilet lid, reaching for a towel. The towel fluttered to the floor resulting in curses from Sherlock, who was shivering in a near violent way. "S'open."

A rush of cold air brushed across John's face as he pushed the door open, stepping into the damp lav. "Shit," he whispered under his breath, stepping forward and grabbing the towel off the floor, fanning it over Sherlock's back and starting to aggressively rub his biceps over the flannel material. 

"Your lips are blue, you are getting back in," he spoke in a worried, but gentle tone. One hand on was kept on Sherlock, the other reached into the shower. He could feel the frigid water dripping off Sherlock's curls onto his wrist. The taps were turned until the water was just shy of typical bathing heat. 

"Come on, just come sit on the floor," he coaxed, standing and pulling Sherlock up into his arms. John moved Sherlock into the shower, getting his thin cotton tee half soaked and not giving a damn. The towel was left around Sherlock’s back to help soak in the warmth and heat him back up.

Sherlock shook in earnest then, teeth chattering as the warmth hit him. "H-had to think. C-cold h-helps. T-too long in m-mind palace. L-lost t-track of ti-time." He shuddered in the spray as he got it out through his clattering teeth.

John crouched just outside of the tub, keeping a hand on Sherlock's bicep as he slowly turned the temperature up. "Just relax," he reassured as he tried to keep Sherlock calm. If Sherlock had put that much time to thinking, something was bothering him deeply. John would press later, but for now he wanted to get him warm and comfortable before they risked him forgetting where he was and what was happening. 

Sherlock closed his eyes and let the spray wash over him. Jim taunted him at the edges of his mind. There was a violent shake of his head, words hissed in a snarling tone, “Fuck off, Jim. I do not require your help.” He gave no indication he knew he’d spoken aloud. Sherlock continued to sit there, trying to settle his mind again. Everything was wrong. It was all fucked and wrong.

John watched him carefully, ready for Sherlock to react physically. He kept his focus on him as he rubbed heat back into him. "Hey," John whispered, "Look at me, Sherlock. Stay right here, okay? Everything is alright." 

Sherlock opened his eyes, focusing on John after a moment. “I am here. Present. Trying to muddle through some problems I have no control over.” His tone was off as he continued to speak. “I came home. I came home and everything was so different and so- so bloody unchanged all at the same time.”

John dipped his head in a sharp nod. "Yeah." He could not feel this with Sherlock. He'd soaked in loss and deep, cloying grief for the years Sherlock was gone and knew what he was describing intimately. Mary had been the only balm to the horrific burn of it, and he'd been pitched into hell alongside Sherlock. While it was a different sort of hell, he'd been burning nonetheless. 

"We will sort out the problems, okay? You don't need to do this to yourself. We will sort it. Can you wait here while I get your pain medication? I'm sure you're hurting after that." 

Sherlock shook his head sharply. "No medicine. Only whatever infection prophylactics they might have me on. I don't know what the hell I'm even taking now. Nothing else. _I need my mind back_!" The words were snarled as he found the strength to shove to his feet and violently twist the taps off. The towel flung against the wall of the shower.

His teeth were grit as he stepped out, snatching another towel, no heed given to his state of undress. Every scar was visible as he stalked past John into the bedroom, looking for a suit.

John stayed exactly as he was, dragging in a deep breath and pressing a hand over his mouth for a moment to gather himself. He knew this was going to come back, the anger and disquiet, though he'd hoped it would wait just a touch longer. He gave a sharp nod after a few moments and pushed to his feet, grabbing the sodden towel and hanging it up, tidying the lav and blowing out the candle before pulling off his soaked tee and tossing it in the laundry. Pain would sort Sherlock out before reason would, John would just have to wait until the damn man was shaking and sweating with it. 

He walked back to his things and pulled on a fresh shirt before going to his chair and sitting down. Sherlock was going to do as he was going to do, and John was not going to get in his way. The day was destined to be long.

Sherlock made it out to his coat and slid his arms into the Belstaff. The suit he had on was sharp, intimidating. His lip was pulled into a near permanent sneer. Sherlock’s neck was tucked into the scarf with sharp, frustrated movements.

John settled in his chair, glad that Mrs. Hudson had taken the glass moon bottle away, propping his cheek on his chin. He'd put water and Sherlock's pills, minus the painkillers, beside his chair. There was little to do but wait and see what sort of foul mood the man would be in. 

"Going out." Christ he hurt. Sherlock steeled himself against it, refusing to succumb to his transport. The flat was stifling, hellish. He was sure he'd had more than enough of it. The only concession he made was crossing to take the pills John had laid out. Pig-headed though he was, he wanted no part of another infection.

John looked up at him, raising his brows. "Oh. Will you do me the courtesy of calling if you fall? Suppose I'm going to have to depend on the kindness of strangers if you black out." 

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at John. "I am perfectly capable of taking care of myself! I am a _fully grown adult_. Which is something everyone I have the displeasure of dealing with forgets!" Anger and rage boiled through him and he could not pull back from attacking John, much as he wanted to.

John put his hands up in the air, shaking his head and looking away. "Yeah, fine," he said quietly, dropping his palms back to his thighs. He'd pulled that very _full grown adult_ out of the damn shower not twenty minutes ago, but he'd not have this out with him. Mycroft's men would likely be keeping an eye, anyhow. "Sorry, have a good… whatever you're doing."

Sherlock could not stop the words as he stalked out of the flat. "Call your wife for God's sake. You married her." The door downstairs slammed soon after. He pulled his collar up and hid in his coat as he moved down the sidewalk. A case. he needed a case. His hand was shaking too badly to text Lestrade. He closed his eyes for a moment. 

His phone chimed. Mycroft.

_What are you doing!?_

Sherlock looked up to the camera nearby, smiled, and extended his middle finger toward it before stalking further down Baker Street.

John absorbed the words calmly, closing his eyes at the vicious sting of them. Oh, how he'd love to call the woman he married. Only she did not exist, and Sherlock was storming out on him, and he just sat there, soaking in the pain of it. He focused on his breathing and held still, keeping himself in place. Perhaps, if he was lucky, he'd mold into the chair and stop existing altogether. Wouldn't that be a happy end.

Sherlock was so tired. He'd walked for nearly an hour, finally finding a bench. The wrought iron of it was cold as he settled down on it.

Mycroft shook his head as he watched his brother give in. His fingers were perfunctory in their button pressing as he texted John.

_It would appear my brother has finally reached his limit of whatever strop he is having. Would you like to go collecting, or have me do it? ___

John was pulled from his thoughts and read the text. His jaw twitched and he closed his eyes, exhausted and relieved. 

_As I've no car, and he's made it quite clear he'd rather not be in my company just now, would likely be best if it were you._

He got up and moved slowly into the kitchen, sluggishly clicking on the light and shuffling over the oddly clean floor. None of his attention was on the practiced movements of putting the kettle on. 

In the next ten minutes, there was a steaming mug of tea, a plate of food sitting covered, pain tablets and a note beside Sherlock's chair. 

_I'm keeping out of your hair. Shout if you need something._

_-John_

He sighed and shook his head, scrubbing a hand over his hair as he eyed the stairs to the extra bedroom. 

Sherlock paid no attention when he was loaded into the car twenty minutes later. Mycroft's men were gentle with him. He spent the very short ride in silence. When they got back to Baker Street, it was a struggle to get the man up the stairs. Everything felt like it was too heavy and too painful to do. 

The upstairs room was a mess. John stared at his old accommodations, sitting on the edge of his old bed. He heard Sherlock come in but did not move. Were it not for Sherlock's need for constant care, he'd have left. Sherlock didn't want him there any longer, and John could hardly blame him. It was clear to John that Sherlock was finally realizing John's culpability in what happened to him. 

Sherlock shouted at the men to stop touching him, panic edging into his voice. "Get out! GET OUT. JOHN! All I want is John. JOHN MAKE THEM STOP." 

There was a crash as he tried to get away from the men and into the kitchen. Sherlock had a knife in his hand and one of the men stopped up short, barely missing being slashed by Sherlock. 

John hardly registered getting up off the bed or throwing open the door, flying down the stairs as he called out to Mycroft's men. "Just back up, don't approach him. Back up," before he even cleared the corner. He pushed past the retreating men, breathing tight and controlled as he stopped at the edge of the carpet, hands up to Sherlock as he took in the situation.

"Hey, hey… Sherlock, slow down mate, easy," he kept his voice gentle, palms out, very slow in his advance. "Easy, put the knife down, yeah?" 

“Make them leave! Make them go away!” Sherlock was on the verge of collapse. His entire body trembled as he stood there still he clutching the knife. 

John kept his eyes locked to Sherlock as he spoke to Mycroft's men. "Thanks for bringing him home, please show yourselves out. Right now." He kept approaching Sherlock, taking very small steps, deeply concerned for how terribly Sherlock was shaking. 

"You're safe. I'm going to take the knife, and then we are going to sit down. Don't hurt me, okay?" 

Sherlock backed up until he was cornered against the counter as the men filed out. When they were gone his knees went out from under him. 

__John managed to grab Sherlock's hand with one hand, wrapping his fingers around Sherlock's were they held on to the handle of the blade, and got his other arm around his waist as his knees gave. They went to the ground together, though John controlled the decent._ _

__He managed to gather the handle of the blade away without trouble as Sherlock mercifully did not struggle. John slid the blade across the floor, watching as it hit the corner and bounced away under the table, far too distant for Sherlock to lunge for._ _

__"Easy," he breathed, wrapping his arms around the trembling man, "just breathe. Breathe. You're alright."_ _

__Sherlock shook hard in John's arms. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I keep- I can't control it... so hateful." There was a choked sob as he buried his face against John's neck._ _

__John held fast while Sherlock fell apart on him. His fingers found their way up to the nape of Sherlock's neck, gently threading in the soft curls there. He held him tight, supporting as much of his weight as he possibly could. They stayed like that for several minutes before he finally spoke._ _

__"Come on, Sherlock. Let me take care of you, okay? The sofa or your bed, we've got to have you off this floor. We are going to stand and you can lean on me, yeah?"_ _

__"Bed, please. I- the bed. It hurts. It all hurts." Sherlock's voice held the tremor of threatening tears in it. "I'm sorry." His mind was shorting out on him, trying to deal with the pain and the terror that his PTSD had thrown at him._ _

__John managed to get them up and to Sherlock's room over the next five minutes, Sherlock's uneven gait nearly took them to the floor several times. They managed to get into his room where John eased him down to the side of the bed. Sherlock was helped out of his Belstaff and his shoes were taken off while he rested there. The pillows were built up at Sherlock’s back against the headboard and John helped him recline back._ _

__"Stay put," John said as he got up, moving swiftly to the lav where he scrubbed his hands down before digging in his kit. Minutes later he returned with morphine in a syringe. He sat down beside Sherlock's hip and pulled Sherlock's arm to his lap, taking a moment to find a vein before he pushed the medication. "It's alright, Sherlock. I'm not angry with you. Just relax and let this work. You're safe, you're safe."_ _

__Sherlock closed his eyes as the medicine hit. "Should be angry with me. Should hate me. I can't fix it. I keep looking for the answer in my mind palace. It's not there!"_ _

__John held his thumb over the small puncture as he pitched the needle in the sharps bin, looking back to Sherlock in confusion. "Hey," he gently admonished, shaking his head, "Sherlock look at me. Breathe, okay? All I need you doing right now is breathing. Whatever it is you are trying to fix, we will figure it out. You're not alone. Can you just look at me for a minute?"_ _

__Sherlock looked up to him and his face crumpled as the drug hit. "I can't fix it. I don't know how to fix it." His brain was dangerously close to shutting him down. Too much emotion, too much stress on his body._ _

__John's brows knit as he watched Sherlock falling apart. "Easy," he whispered, leaning in and wrapping his arms around the man. "Hey, easy… what are you trying to fix? Take it easy, it's alright, Sherlock."_ _

__"Everything. Everything is broken. We're all broken." He tucked his head in against John. "My apologies, my brain isn't it isn't right, John."_ _

__John shook his head and leaned back slowly, getting a look at Sherlock. "We are not all broken. It's going to be okay, Sherlock. Take a deep breath for me, you've just worn yourself down. An hour of walking is far too much already. Did you fall?" He reached down and squeezed Sherlock's hand. "We are okay. You don't need to fix anything, alright?"_ _

__Sherlock shook his head in a tired manner. "Just sat on a bench, I didn't fall." He closed his eyes again, sagging back against the pillows. "I'm sorry. I- I need rest, or something."_ _

__John nodded, "Go to sleep, put whatever it is you're worrying about out of your mind and sleep." He rubbed Sherlock's arm for a while, quietly sitting with him, trying to puzzle out what was bothering the man so acutely._ _

__Minutes ticked by until a quarter of an hour passed in silence. John's voice cut through the soft darkness of the curtained room, whispering in case Sherlock was already sleeping. "You're not going to be alone, Sherlock. I'll figure it all out, but either way you'll not be alone."_ _

__Sherlock was almost asleep when John spoke. He shifted slightly to be closer to John and soon dropped off completely. His mind palace was a disaster area, a shadow of itself while he was asleep._ _

__John got up when Sherlock was finally out and walked back into the sitting room. He was calmer than he'd been in quite some time. His thoughts were turned over and examined as he walked the length of the flat. It was easier to sort how he was going to handle Mary now that he knew for a fact that no matter, he was going to live in the same place as Sherlock. She would either accept that, or she would not. There was nothing negotiable about it._ _

__Sherlock slept for several hours. His body relaxing, mind resetting. When he came up, he was calm again, though no closer to working out how to fix things between John and Mary._ _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for all the lovely birthday wishes... Just three more chapters before this is done. Thank you all so much.


	18. Chapter 18

The next month passed in a slow blur. Sherlock increased his appointments with his physical therapists as John grew quiet in progressive increments. It was rare for him to engage in conversation unless Sherlock initiated it. Mary's messages, scattered few and far between, went unanswered. In the evenings, while Sherlock lay on his back, legs propped up, recuperating from his day, John spent time in his chair staring off into space, fingers tapping on his armrest. As the days went by, the amount of time John spent like that grew.

They slept and ate, doing little else until Sherlock could manage more than ten minutes on his feet. It was then they slowly began to walk Baker Street. Their walks were the only times the hard lines of tension would ease away from John's face. Sherlock's swift, irritated deductions of passers by was soothing and he allowed himself to relax in the familiarity of it. 

October died into November, the air cooling sharp and the days shortening. Sherlock's confused night terrors had thinned out in a significant drop and it had been weeks since he'd last attacked John. The sleuth had not pressed John much where Mary was concerned, seeming to either forget or think better of it. 

Sherlock was all but healed now. All he needed was to build up his endurance and allow the wound a bit more down time. John could see that stairs and bending often caused him to flush pale, setting his hands shaking, though Sherlock made a valiant effort to hide such symptoms. John never made mention, more than to offer him his pain medication. 

This was how the mid November evening found them. Sherlock was down, waxen-white, looking as fragile as John had seen him in weeks. The idiot had attempted small job. Sherlock found the idea to be ill-advised and he'd had to lean on John the entire four blocks home.

"Take this," John’s voice sounded, quiet in the flat, as he handed over the pills. His hands dropped to the hem of Sherlock's shirt and rucked it up as soon as the man took the water and tablets from him. Sherlock was shaking in such a way under John's hands that he was afraid Sherlock had torn something, even though he'd only made it about twenty paces running before he hit the pavement, knees buckling.

Sherlock felt ill as he lay there, trying to get the pills to his mouth. Without warning he leaned over the side of the sofa and was sicking up in a spectacular manner. Small cries of pain sounded between heaves while Sherlock’s too-thin frame was wracked with shudders. The water from the glass soaked into the rug, though Sherlock had managed to keep a grip on the pills. Somehow through it all he was apologizing over and over again, sounding like a broken bit of sound recording.

John swore as he grabbed a nearby bin, shoving it closer to Sherlock's face as he helped pull him to his side. One hand was on Sherlock's shoulder to keep him steady, the other pressed to Sherlock's neck, closely gauging his pulse. "Breathe, just try and relax, breathe Sherlock," John’s voice was calm as he rubbed Sherlock's shoulder, waiting for his stomach to settle. Sherlock had been nearly healthy in the last few weeks, going so far as to taper down his medication for pain. To say this was unexpected was a gross understatement. "Just breathe, it's alright." 

Sherlock whimpered as the heaving finally stopped. He sagged against the bed, eyes closing as he panted. "It hurts, John, it all hurts." He swallowed audibly and then leaned over again, gagging and retching without production. A sheen of sweat was spreading across him as he lay there. The pained moan that sounded from him was truly pitiful and he whimpered again. "Think it's just pain..."

John shifted Sherlock's legs so that he was more in a recovery position before tugging Sherlock's shirt further up to his armpit, skilled fingers tracing over the wound in search of bruising or tenderness. When he found nothing, he took a moment to walk away into the lav, his own hands starting to shake as his heart galloped in his chest. He gave himself ten seconds to lean against the lav wall, eyes closed, breathing slow as he stared up at the ceiling. 

Sherlock was likely right. Odds were it was just pain, that he'd pushed too hard and now had upset his healing body. John wet a few flannels and walked back to Sherlock's side not a minute later, dropping several towels over the sick on the floor before pressing the cool, damp cloth to Sherlock's forehead. "It's alright," he repeated, sweeping Sherlock's hair back from his face. Mycroft was due for a visit any bloody minute, and wasn't that going to be interesting? John had just that morning assured that Sherlock was likely far past anything concerning. "Give me those tablets, I'm just giving you a jab. Those will hurt your stomach," he was gentle as he took them back, hating that they'd pulled Sherlock's line completely weeks ago.

Sherlock relinquished the pills and lay there looking exhausted. "Yeah, a jab, okay." The room seemed to spin around him as he sank back into the sofa. "My apologies. I should have known better." His breathing was coming in sharp little pants as he attempted to orient himself. "John..." Sherlock let out another small cry as he retched again. "Make it stop..."

In those moments, Sherlock looked tiny, nothing of the man he'd been before he was shot. His fingers curled around the edge of the sofa as tears streamed down his face, both a bodily reaction to the vomiting as well as to the pain.

John bit down on the inside of his cheek as he moved back to the lav, grabbing his kit and hurrying back. Sherlock had gone nearly gray, shaking and crying on the sofa, and John's medical mind was in danger of being drown out by the screaming fear that something horrible was going on that he was missing. He dropped the bag next to Sherlock, hardly realizing that he'd made it back from the lav already, pulling it open and fetching out a blood pressure cuff and stethoscope. "Breathe, Sherlock. Try and calm down. Breathe," he repeated, stalling on the pain medication until after he'd taken decent vitals.

Sherlock took slow, deep breaths for John while he listened, wincing when his lungs were full. He stared dully at the blood pressure cuff when John wrapped it around his arm. Sherlock didn't move while John searched his vitals. A quiet settled over the room as Sherlock withdrew into himself out of a desperate bid to control the pain. Still he watched John, even as part of him sought relief within his mind palace.

John kept strict control of his expression as he pulled the cuff off, filling a syringe with a heavy dose of morphine. "Stay with me, don't do that," he said quietly, leaving off the pathetic _please_ as he watched Sherlock drawing away into his mind. He heard Mrs. Hudson downstairs opening the door, presumably for Mycroft, as he turned Sherlock's arm, swabbing over the veins with a cold square of alcohol as he searched for a place to slip the injection. "Make a fist, Sherlock, I know you're hurting I'm going to fix it."

He'd not seen Mycroft personally in nearly a month. The two men had forged some sort of… not friendship, but, perhaps, an alliance. John updated him as often as he wanted, and, up until now, he'd been giving steady reports of improvement. Even the flashbacks had subsided, nearly overnight. While that was honestly a touch concerning, John had been pleased that Sherlock was mending.

Sherlock watched him and balled up his fist for John. "Mycroft. Why is Mycroft coming up the stairs?" The words were slightly off, strained. Mycroft's footsteps were light on the stairs and soon he was leaning lightly in the doorway.

"John, Sherlock." Mycroft took in the situation. "Is there anything I can do?"

John found a vein that had not entirely shied away from him and swiftly slipped the needle in, slowly starting to push the morphine. "Mycroft was going to have lunch with us today, remember?" He looked up to Mycroft and then nodded to his own chair for the man to have a seat, "Think we just got ahead of ourselves," he explained quietly, looking back at Sherlock as he gave the morphine. He was watching his color closely. Sherlock's blood pressure was lower than he wanted while his heart rate was through the roof. He could be bleeding, though John wasn't sure why that would be. It could also just be pain. "He collapsed about twenty minutes ago."

Mycroft nodded as he stood there, watching his brother closely. Sherlock rolled his eyes but said nothing, letting the morphine sink in. Mycroft crossed to John's chair and settled in. 

"It's helping," Sherlock's words were breathed out softly. His hand moved up and wrapped into John's shirt. "Thank you. I'm sorry about the mess."

John capped the needle and set it aside to toss later, reaching forward and taking Sherlock's pulse again. Satisfied that he could leave it for a minute, he wrapped the cuff back around Sherlock's arm, taking his pressure once more. When he was done, he simply left it on, intending to watch Sherlock very closely over the next few minutes. 

"Don't worry about the mess," he said quietly, completely shaken by Sherlock's sudden, sharp decline. He gently took Sherlock's fingers out of his shirt and knelt beside the sofa, starting in on cleaning up the mess, putting his focus to breathing and keeping steady. It did not take long to mop up, for the most part, and soon he was walking out, leaving the brothers alone as he dumped the bin and the towels, scrubbing up his hands as his own heart raced at a sickening pace in his chest. 

He returned swiftly, hands cleaned to his elbows, pulling up the windows to air the sitting room out. He went back to Sherlock's side and again measured his blood pressure, keeping an eye on Sherlock's heart rate. "Dizzy? Faint? Are you thirsty or feeling anxious?"

"Room is spinning, was doing so before the morphine." The words were weak, shaky. 

Mycroft leaned forward in the chair, brow creasing with worry. "John, should we put him in the car and take him in?" He looked uncomfortable with the way things were progressing.

John swallowed down the sound of distress that nearly made its way past his vocal chords. A sharp, shrill tone began to grow in volume deep in his ears as his mind suddenly supplied him with an image of Sherlock's body, lax and ashen gray, arching up into the electric paddles as they tried to get his heart going again. He pulled the cuff off Sherlock's arm before slowly pushing Sherlock to his back, looking down at the pink scar tissue of the gunshot wound Mary had given him to bear the rest of his life. 

He pressed lightly at Sherlock's abdomen, finding it rigid, though it could be from guarding. "Pain in your belly," John asked swiftly, keeping an eye on Sherlock even as he drew out his mobile and sent the first text in over a month to Mark. 

_Hope you're on shift, think I'm bringing Sherlock to you._

Sherlock whimpered when John pushed against his stomach. "Don't, God, please don't." 

Mark's reply was swift. _Out to lunch, wrapping everything up now and heading back. Bring him straight to my office first? I'll check him out there and we'll go from there._

Mycroft pulled out his own phone and ordered the car back as he pushed to his feet. "John, do you need me to gather anything for you?"

John finally looked over at Mycroft, accepting that there was no way to avoid a trip. "No, but he may need an ambulance. I doubt he can walk like this." Sherlock was pale and sweating, his blood pressure holding while his heart fluttered wildly. John dragged a hand over his face as he got to his feet. He bent over Sherlock and loosened the tie on the cotton trousers Sherlock had donned for their morning exercise. 

He reached down, wrapping his arms around Sherlock. "Hang on to me, let's see if you can stand," John’s words were gentle as he forced himself to stay in the moment.

Mycroft nodded sharply as he watched Sherlock try to struggle to his feet. His younger brother gave a sharp cry of pain and Mycroft swore. He was on the phone in the next moment ordering an ambulance be brought as he spoke with 999.

Sherlock panted as he laid on the sofa, shaking his head. "I can't, God. I can't."

John eased him back down on his side, watching the little color Sherlock had in his cheeks fade down to nothing. He crouched in front of Sherlock, one hand pressed to Sherlock's neck, watching his pulse. The other he slid through Sherlock's hair, trying to steady him. He'd been _fine_ , vastly improved and making more strides every day toward health. This was so far out of left field that John could hardly think. 

He wracked his mind for what could be happening, stumbling across prognosis that were increasingly worse. He shook his head and texted Mark. 

_Had to call 999, he can't stand. BP is 90/76 holding, HR 119 thready, pale and diaphoretic, abdomen rigid. We are going right to A &E. Forty minutes ago, he was perfectly fine. Tried a bit of a jog, collapsed within three minutes. _

He slid his mobile back into his pocket, keeping his hands steady, his heart in his throat. They were supposed to be past this. "Stay awake, ok? Just humor your John and stay awake for me."

Sherlock nodded as he breathed harder, leaning into John's hands. "I'm awake. I- yeah. I'm awake." There was a small whimper from him as he closed his eyes for a moment. "It hurts, John... it hurts."

When the paramedics got there it was pandemonium for a few minutes, but soon Sherlock was tucked in the ambulance with John. Mycroft followed along after them in his car. 

Mark's reply came when they were half way to the hospital.

_In A &E, waiting on your arrival._

John all but bullied the medics out of his way, pressing a mask over Sherlock's face, watching his vitals as he carried on in swift decline. Sherlock was guarding his right upper quadrant in a desperate way by the time Mark replied. He curled slightly around it, shaking fingers pressed over his gut. There was no external bruising. His vitals were not showing the dramatic tank-out of an internal bleed. John pulled out his phone and texted Mark, stern in his effort to keep himself calm. 

_He looks like a patient with an intestinal torsion, only his abdominal sounds are clear and normal. He's really shock-y on me right now, nearly there. I don't like this._

Mark was busy barking orders in A&E. The doctor in charge of A&E was just grateful someone else was handling a case. A portable ultrasound machine was waiting on them when John and the medics offloaded Sherlock. 

"John." Mark’s tone was curt as he wasted no time. The gel was spread over Sherlock as Mark started the machine. "Hold on for me Sherlock, afraid this might hurt."

Sherlock screamed when Mark pressed, scanning the area. The lanky detective struggled to get away from Mark who put a firm hand on Sherlock's shoulder. "I'm sorry, Sherlock. I am." He held Sherlock down as he continued to scan when he came across the hepatic portal vein. 

"There. Sherlock, you've got calcification in the main blood supply to your liver." Mark looked up at John. "I'll call surgery."

John had his hands on Sherlock's arm and shoulder, keeping him in place, gut twisting as protective rage flooded across his own belly in response to Sherlock screaming. He had to push it down, rationally knowing that Mark was not causing Sherlock harm. He reached up and flooded the oxygen open wide, holding the mask over Sherlock's face. 

He saw the calcification on screen before Mark spoke, understanding in that instant what was happening. John kept himself from swearing as Mark moved to get surgery on the line. He leaned in close to Sherlock, speaking quiet and as calm as he could make himself. "They can likely do this with a scope, you shouldn't have a large incision. They will get in, grab that, and get out. I'll take you home in a day or two. Jogging likely broke it loose. It's okay, just keep breathing." 

This was, of course, so long as there were zero complications during the procedure. Dragging a massive, sharp collection of craggy calcium out of a delicate and thrice-damaged vein was tricky business.

Sherlock had tears streaming down his face and his hand in John's shirt. "I love you." The words were bitten through a haze of pain and muffled by the mask.

Mark was on the phone in the corner of the room calling for the room to be prepped and asking who was on call. His voice was firm, answers sharp, clear. 

Mycroft came in just on the heels of a nurse who was starting an IV.

John nodded as he stretched Sherlock's arm out for the nurse, tapping his most accessible vein before turning his focus back to Sherlock. "Don't fight with the pain," he whispered, shaking his head as he held Sherlock's hand, sweeping his other palm over Sherlock's damp cheeks. "They are going to knock you down in a minute. Just breathe, you're going to be okay," John was ready to tear his own hair out by the roots. They were past this. They were _past this_. Sherlock's pulse continued to elevate, upwards of 140 now, and John was struggling not to shout at Mark to hurry them the hell up with surgery.

As soon as the nurse had the line the anesthesiologist was there. Sherlock watched John as something was pushed in his line. "Love you." He slurred again as the drug yanked him under before he could fully get the sentence out. The hand in John's shirt relaxed and slipped free.

"John, go with Mycroft. I'm scrubbing in to watch the surgery. Go to my lounge, okay? The one you showered in so often." Mark's words were firm, but gentle.

John stared at Sherlock another moment, he was slow in putting Sherlock’s hand down on the mattress before smoothing a damp curl away from his eyes. He drew in a sharp breath and nodded, turning away without another word. He met Mycroft in the hallway, walking the familiar path in a daze as he explained to Mycroft what happened in a deadpan monotone. 

"A calcium clot developed on the suture lines in his IVC, suppose it's been growing all this time. When he decided to try a jog, it likely broke free of the vein wall and is currently blocking blood flow to his liver. If they can get it without complication, he'll likely be home the day after tomorrow."

Mycroft nodded as he listened and they found themselves in the doctor's lounge. He guided John to a chair. "John, breathe and look at me. Sherlock is going to be fine. Please, sit down. I'll make you a cuppa?" 

John slowly sat down, putting his eyes to his feet. He shook his head, utterly uninterested in tea. "He's been fine. We made a lot of progress… I- I didn't expect… two hours ago he was arguing with me over biscuits." He went quiet then, a trembling hand running through his hair as the adrenaline slowly edged out of his bloodstream, leaving him struggling for composure in the crash.

Mycroft sat down beside John after fetching himself a coffee. He wrinkled his nose in distaste after one sip and set it aside. "He''s going to continue to be fine, John. Sherlock has come through much more."

John nodded in an absent way, frozen where he sat, palms sweating. He forced himself to breathe as normally as possible. Sherlock had been dragged through hell for far too long, and this latest, belated complication was so wildly unfair he could scarcely get his mind around it.

Silence fell over the room as the two of them waited. Mycroft fielded calls from a few people, informing Mrs. Hudson and then their parents. Mycroft and John stared at the walls, waiting through the maddening slow drip of time for word of Sherlock.

Two hours slid by before Mark finally walked into the room where Mycroft and John were waiting. He drew up a chair and sat down in front of them, lacing his fingers between his knees as he leaned forward. 

"He's being watched in recovery. That cyst was much larger than it looked on ultrasound, shredded enough of his IVC that we had to put in a stent. He lost a good deal of blood on the table. Right now he's tentatively stable, but he's still being managed as though returning to theater any minute. It will be a bit longer before either of you can go up."

Mycroft closed his eyes and let out a small sigh. There was a sharp nod before he opened them again and looked at John, wondering how the man was going to cope. "But as of right now, he is stable and should nothing else happen, he'll heal properly, yes?" His voice was strong as he reached out and put a hand lightly on John's shoulder.

Mark nodded. "The stent will likely need to stay, he'll have to see someone twice a year for the foreseeable future. So long as this was the extent of it, he should be fine. I'll keep you posted. I need to get back, see how he's doing, I just wanted to keep you updated." 

John exhaled slowly as Mark left, otherwise not moving. It was too much like it had been before, in the terrifying days when Sherlock would just crash on him without much warning. "Shouldn't have let him run. He just took off. I should have stopped him."

"John, you know as well as I do that he would have run sooner or later. You couldn't have stopped him. I am grateful you were with him. Thank you." Mycroft tried to reassure the doctor. He'd been doing his damnedest to keep the two of them safe on multiple fronts. Both his body and his soul were beginning to show the wear of it.

John shrugged and closed his eyes, making himself go still and quiet while his mind screamed at him to get up, to do something, to hurry up and fix it so they could go home and Sherlock could holler at him over tea and they would go to bed. The idea of spending another night in hospital holding his breath as he made sure Sherlock kept drawing his own was so hateful he could hardly stomach it. 

Another two agonizing hours slid by before Mark came back in. He popped his head in the door. "We are moving him to ICU right now, if you two want to come up now, you're more than welcome. He's awake, but out of it."

Mycroft pushed to his feet offering John a hand, pulling him out of the seat with a strong grip, only wincing a small amount as he got the smaller man to his feet. "Come on, let us go see my wayward brother." John Watson was barely hanging on. Mycroft, for Sherlock's sake as well as John's, was not going to let him fall.

John got up and walked beside Mycroft calm and even as they followed Mark. He had no idea if Sherlock was being combative or cowering, or if he was healthy enough to be any of those things. The entire situation was terrifying, stealing away his voice and his resolve. He almost asked Mark what sort of mood Sherlock was in before deciding that he really didn't want to know when he couldn't do anything about it. Sherlock had given them hell when he was lost, so perhaps that wasn't the case now. 

Sherlock was staring at the door mostly asleep, even though his eyes were open. When Mycroft stepped aside to allow John in, a small smile crossed his face. His voice was rough and slurred, "Hello, John."

Mycroft did not deny the relief that washed over him. A small, but true smile broke over his face. He ducked back into the hallway to give them a modicum of privacy despite the medical team around them.

John went to Sherlock's side as Mark joined the rest of the medical team in treating him. He dragged up a rolling stool and seated himself right next to Sherlock's shoulders, reaching forward and taking Sherlock's freezing hand in his. He did not speak, even as he gave Sherlock a tight-lipped smile. His vision blurred at the sight of Sherlock back in a gown, turned on his side, oxygen under his nose, and drip lines tethering him to fluids he needed to survive. His gut twisted horrifically, fear blooming in earnest over his heart. This was what he always looked like before he died. 

John slid a trembling thumb over the backs of Sherlock's knuckles, hardly daring to breathe lest his composure crack.

Sherlock watched John and the corner of his mouth twitched up before he just looked tired. There was a weak squeeze to John's hand and he sighed as he was jostled around. The medical crew was as gentle as they could be, but some movement was inevitable.

The team was at Sherlock for several minutes longer before filing out, leaving them in peace. Two of the surgeons lingered at the doorway and John could hear them quietly speaking with Mycroft. He ignored them, planning on just reading Sherlock's chart when he'd recovered a bit of his composure back. He squeezed Sherlock's hand, keeping as he was as he controlled his breathing.

Sherlock yawned as he spoke again, words still stilted and rough, "S'ok if I sleep? Stay?" His thumb stroked over John's hand. The dark head of curls already dipping as he struggled to stay awake.

John nodded, keeping hold of Sherlock's hand as his stomach twisted, making John feel physically ill. He looked over at Sherlock's monitors, abandoning the effort as his vision blurred on him again. It was nothing short of incredible how strong of a reaction he was having already. John was far from prepared to see Sherlock back in this position. An ingrained part of his panicked mind shouted at him to keep Sherlock awake, afraid he'd fade out and not return. Instead, he kept quiet, holding onto Sherlock's hand at his side.

Sherlock fell into a deep sleep. The only shift in anything was his breathing which evened out and slowed. Despite everything going on, Sherlock seemed to be steady and even.

Mycroft slipped in and, with a gentle hand, touched Sherlock's curls. His voice was quiet. "I'll get you anything you need John, just tell me."

John shook his head, letting go of Sherlock and standing up to cross the room, dashing a hand across his eyes under the guise of checking something near one of the monitors. He blinked several times in quick succession and cleared his throat. "I'm fine, I think. We are not staying here long. He's coming home." As though they were not standing in the ICU, as though Sherlock were going to wake up and walk out, utter denial of their situation. This wasn't happening. John refused it.

Mycroft's voice was gentle. "Of course he is, John. But he is staying, even if it is only overnight." He had to choose his words carefully. "I will have a bag with a tracksuit for you and some pyjamas for Sherlock brought by. Just to make you both more comfortable this evening?"

John nodded and cleared his throat again, sliding a hand into his pocket. "Yeah alright, be better not to sleep in this." He moved over to the window, looking outside. They were only a few rooms down from where Sherlock had stayed the last time and he was struggling with too many things to name. John closed his eyes, leaning against the sill. The tremor was back in his hand. He'd not been braced for this at all and the terrible wear was written all over him. 

Mycroft watched John, not bothering to hide the worry in his eyes. "John, do you still have anxiety medication that I should retrieve from Baker Street?" John's body language was deeply troubling.

John shifted after a few minutes, looking back over at Mycroft. "No, I'm fine. Just… just tired. I'm fully alright. He's just going to sleep and then he'll wake up tomorrow and it will be fine. It's going to be totally fine. This isn't a long term thing, and he's not… he's not going to crash or anything so dramatic. Just a minor setback. He's- everything is fine." He was speaking in a slow, tightly controlled tone, mostly assuring himself as panic swelled in his gut. There was no reason for panic. Sherlock was fine. He was _fine_.

Mycroft cleared his throat. "Alright, John. Alright." He rubbed the back of his neck in an uncharacteristic way, wincing as he did. "I'm going to go gather your things. I'll be back shortly."

John nodded and took up his position at the window again, keeping his back to the medical scene behind him. He knew he was responding oddly to this, but that was about as far as it went.

Mycroft closed his eyes when he got to the hallway and tried to steady himself. It took him several minutes to gain his composure again. Mycroft drew himself up and started down the hall. He had fires to put out and a bag to gather.

John's eyes slid closed after a few minutes. He'd not processed what he and Sherlock had been through in his hospital stay, and with such an abrupt and unexpected return, he was now forced to. He'd focused the last month on sorting his feelings regarding Mary, not paying mind to the healing that needed doing from the entire incident and frightening hospital stay afterwards. 

Panic washed over him completely and he simply allowed it to happen, arms wrapped tight around himself, leaned hard against the window to help support his legs. 

_What if he codes again? I can't even get a grip long enough to read his chart. Your hands are shaking. Shut the hell up, John, I know my hands are shaking._

_Well that didn't sound fucking mental. Christ, John, get a grip._

_What if the stent gives and he bleeds out while I'm asleep? There are monitors but I'd see it faster if I stay awake. What if I- goddamn it, John, what the hell is wrong with you?_

_What if Mary doesn't love me anymore?_

_What if I don't love her?_

_How the bloody fuck are you worrying about this with Sherlock lying in a sickbed at your back? You're mental, John. Bloody mental. Well, you knew that already, didn't you? He's the only one that would have you, until he died, and you got your arse beat and a psychopath picked you up out of the streets. Fucking idiot. What if you take her back and she hurts him again?_

_Will Sherlock's flashbacks happen again now that he's hurt? Am I going to have to take him to ground again now that this has happened?_

_I can't do this. Any of this. It's too much and there are no solutions. It's too much. I can't do this. I can't do it again._

His mind ran wild as John tried to put himself back together, thought after crashing thought tearing through his inward composure. He lost track of time as he remained locked in a self-embrace against the window.

Sherlock woke nearly an hour after Mycroft left. "The hell am I doing in hospital again?" He groaned as he tried to sit up. "Utterly ridiculous. I refuse to be a part of this nonsense." John was out of Sherlock's peripheral vision. "John!" The voice was stronger, annoyed. "I know you're here somewhere. God's sake."

John startled hard, nearly falling over as Sherlock shouted for him. "Here, Sherlock I'm right here." He turned around to face Sherlock, cheeks shining, shock white.

Sherlock's head came around and he reached for John, movements slightly stuttered. "Take me home. This is ridiculous!"

John moved without thinking, reaching out for Sherlock and trading his hand. "Be calm," he whispered, dragging his face across his shoulder as he drew in a wavering breath, "you had surgery, be calm."

Sherlock pressed his face to John when he was close enough to do so. "I- I remember the case, the running, getting sick at the flat. Mycroft's vomitous cologne. Not his normal cologne either. Horrifying." Sherlock babbled for a moment before taking a breath. "But not much else."

John held on to Sherlock, carding his fingers through his hair. "No more running," he whispered, trying to keep a hold of himself.

"I have to get back into the swing of things at some point." Sherlock's voice was fond but grumpy as he near clung to John. "I am sorry I frightened you."

John shook his head and inhaled deeply. "I know you've got to get back into it but," he closed his eyes, leaning harder into Sherlock, hands shaking as he ran them through Sherlock's hair. "H-How are you feeling? Any dizziness? Faint? Does anything hurt overly much? Be careful with your abdomen. You had a cyst break loose in your IVC and it was blocking blood flow to your liver. That's why you were vomiting and in such swift pain." 

He leaned back then, trying to get a proper look at Sherlock, one hand on the side of his face as he gently pulled Sherlock's lower lid down. He couldn't make himself damn well stop with the shaking, and it was getting bloody irritating. 

Sherlock's hand came up and he wrapped it around John's wrist. "John. I'm barely out of anesthesia if the way I feel is any indication. I'm alright, I am. I don't hurt right now. Not in any pain. I don't feel ill. I am a tad woozy, but given the circumstances, I don't think it's surprising or unexpected."

There was a slow, deep breath from Sherlock. "I cannot apologize enough for my body having put you through this."

John cracked a solid, desperate laugh and shook his head. "Jesus, Sherlock, it's not as though you can control that. It's not like you're not lying here stitched back together again, affected too. You don't need to apologize, this isn't your fault." 

He let Sherlock move his hand, simply sitting on the edge of the bed, working hard to get himself controlled. "I don't know what's wrong with me. I'm being absurd. You're fine and I'll take you home tomorrow and it's _fine_."

Sherlock hummed and twined his fingers with John’s. “We’re going to go home, continue my therapy and it’s going to be _wonderful_ , not just fine.” A small grin crept over his lips at that. “Alright? We’ll be solving cases and plotting ways to drive Lestrade insane.”

Sherlock's assurances helped ease the sick worry and John gave him a gentle smile, nodding as he eased down to his side, wrapping up on the side opposite Sherlock's fresh incisions. He closed his eyes and tipped his nose to the crown of Sherlock's head, keeping their fingers laced together. "I'm sorry," he whispered quietly, irritated with himself. "I shouldn't have let you be so active on your own, and I shouldn't be… this, when you're down. It just took me by surprise."

"I shouldn't have taken off running like that... it was stupid of me. It isn't as though you can just put me on a leash, John. I am bull-headed and will take off at a moment's notice all the time. But I will endeavor to be more careful next time." Sherlock closed his eyes. "This is not your fault either and your reaction is understandable given the past few months."

John settled quietly, wrapped around Sherlock in a position where he could effortlessly look at Sherlock's monitors. He was fucking _exhausted_ , mentally worn down after the day. He noticed with a hint of surprise that the sun had properly set, meaning Mycroft had been away hours. Shame flooded over him and he simply embraced it, feeling quite deserving of the feeling. Mycroft likely was doing all he could to keep away as long as possible, and damn if John couldn't blame him. 

Sherlock fell asleep in John's arms again, the trauma his body had been through once more pulling him under. His hand was curled around John’s still.

Mycroft had been gone hours through no fault of his own. He'd been picked up in a car that was not his own when he left the hospital. When Mycroft returned he was more withdrawn than normal, his bearing stiff and gait altered somewhat. To say he was relieved Sherlock was asleep and not awake to ask questions was a gross understatement.

"John, apologies. There were things I needed to tend to. I have things for you both. I did over pack... I have a tendency to. Several pairs of pyjamas and clothing for you both." His voice was soft, an effort not to disturb Sherlock.

John sat up properly, carefully untangling from Sherlock and getting to his feet. He dragged a hand over his face as he quietly approached Mycroft. "What's happened," he whispered softly, sharply picking up on the pained way Mycroft held himself. Something was _wrong_. He took the bag from the man and set it aside, putting a hand on Mycroft's shoulder and easing him out into the hall where they could speak and he could get a better look at the man. 

"Mycroft, what happened?"

Mycroft smile was tight. "It's nothing, John. A visit to an old friend. Misjudged a step and had quite the fall. Sherlock is our worry at the moment. I am fine."

John knew Mycroft was shutting him down, and he was frankly just fine with that. One damaged Holmes was all he could take at the moment. "Thank you for bringing his things, and mine. He woke, was lucid, was remarkably docile, and then went back to sleep. I'll keep you updated." 

Mycroft nodded. "It is much appreciated. Don't hesitate to ask for anything you need. I'm only a text or call away. Your laptop and the tablet are there, as is Sherlock's mobile." He touched John's shoulder for a moment. "Thank you, for taking care of him." Mycroft withdrew then. "I'll see you tomorrow." He moved away, taking himself back down the hall with as much ease as he could muster.

John ended up settling in the chair at Sherlock's bedside for the night. ICU was too tricky of an area to spend up in the bed with him, even though he was, thankfully, not on a vent or nearly as many lines as his last stay there. He did not change clothes yet, merely curling up in the recliner at Sherlock's side, facing him as he finally nodded off sometime near three.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If all goes well, chapters 19 and 20 should, _hopefully_ be posted by the fifth of April.


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, the chapter count has gone up. I was an idiot and mislabeled chapters when I went through finding the chapter breaks. We've got twenty-one in total rather than twenty. This one's a roller coaster. It will get better, eventually...
> 
> -Symphony

Sherlock stared at Jim, the shock evident on his face.

Jim sipped from an elegant teacup before speaking, "Welcome back, Sherlock. Did you miss me?"

"I'm alright! I am _well_. My surgery went well and everything is _fine_!" Sherlock’s body was tense as he took up pacing just inside the doors of his mind palace.

Jim scoffed as he rolled his eyes. "Oh do shut up, Sherlock. Your body needs the downtime. Afraid you're stuck with me for now."

Sherlock scowled at him, pacing for a while before throwing himself into his chair with a huff. A cup of tea was slid across the table to him. Still scowling, Sherlock picked up the cup and watched as Jim went back to his paper.

\---

Mark shook Sherlock, concern etching itself deeper into his face. "Sherlock. Come on," he muttered as he rubbed his knuckles back and forth over Sherlock's sternum. "Come up for me, don't be lazy." Every vital sign checked out. Mark swore under his breath, unable to find a reason for Sherlock failing to rouse.

John had been silently watching Mark attempting to wake Sherlock for the better part of ten minutes now, still curled in the recliner, hardly breathing. The shrill ring in his ears was back, and he could not bring himself to move. It could not be happening again, it just couldn't. Perhaps he himself was still asleep and he just needed to wake up. That would be it. It was a night terror and he would wake up to Sherlock bitching about the quality of the food, and everything was going to be fine. 

It was fine. 

Everything was fine. 

_Wake the fuck up, John. Wake up._

Mark shook his head as he finally stepped back, staring up at the monitors. "I have to call neurology." He rubbed his hand down his face before looking to John. "There's no medical reason I can see for this. His blood panel is good. His monitors are wonderful. But we don't have him on an EEG, so, we'll start there. He could be seizing."

John closed his eyes and bit down hard on the inside of his cheek, hardly moving the air in his lungs as his gut twisted. 

_No_. 

No. This was… Sherlock was pulling something or- or John himself was asleep or...

John opened his eyes again, slowly pushing up to his feet and walking over to Sherlock in a daze. "No, he's fine," John’s tone was flat as he reached down to take Sherlock's hand. "Come on, Sherlock, it's not funny. If you're bored and socially experimenting, it's not the time. You're scaring me. Open your eyes." 

Sherlock did not respond in the slightest. John adjusted his stance and spoke in the same flat tone to Sherlock as his heart fluttered in his chest. "Alright, come on now. That's enough. Open your eyes. You're fine, you're _fine_. Enough of this.” John gave Sherlock a bit of a shake. 

When Sherlock still refused to respond, John turned his attention to Mark, voice a dead monotone. "He's fine. I'm taking him home today. Everything is fine. He's just tired. He's fine."

Mark shook his head as he looked to John. "John, please, you need to sit down. I realize this is worrying, but please don't make me have to deal with you too. I'll be back in a few minutes. I'm going to get neurology here and- we'll figure this out. Try to relax for me, please." He disappeared from the room, going to make a phone call..or five. 

John stepped away from Sherlock then, sitting back down in a slow, detached way. He leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and stared down at his hands as he began to talk to Sherlock. 

"It's not funny," John’s voice was quiet as he shook his head. He fucking _could not_ accept that Sherlock was suffering another complication. He could _not_. Mark was already irritated with him personally, but it was fine. It was _fine_. Everything was alright. Sherlock was just… it was fine. He shut himself up and kept in his chair, staring down at his hands.

An hour passed with Mark making phone call after phone call. The man came back in trailing someone with an EEG. Mark moved to in front of John while the EEG leads were being fixed to Sherlock's head. "Neurology is going to come in a few hours, after we've had Sherlock on the EEG for a while. Okay? John, this is Sherlock. He's never easy on us. Have you still got medication?"

John did not look up as he roughly snapped back, "Leave off. I'll not make you deal with me as well. I'm fine." He set his jaw, vision blurring though he kept a hold of himself. Sherlock wasn't fine. Sherlock had ignored him the entire hour, refused to budge even when John was rough with his nail bed, well and properly unreachable. Again. 

_How long would it be this time before Sherlock's heart stopped? Would Mycroft allow them to continue care? To what end, after what point would-_

He shook his head, trying to cut himself off. His hands were trembling terribly and he balled them into fists, attempting to calm himself. "I'll keep out of your hair, Mark."

Mark sighed as he watched John. Every worry he had for the pair was etched across his face, from Sherlock’s coma like state, to John’s struggle with it. 

"Alright... Okay, John. I didn't mean anything by it." _Please don’t make me remove you._

John leaned back in his chair and shut up. Even though it was simply an EEG, it made Sherlock appear much more ill than he was. Or at least, than John hoped he was. He drew out his phone to text Mycroft, every movement belying how much he did not want to. 

_We can't wake him up. Neuro is coming to look, they can't find a medical reason._

As soon as he hit send, John calmly got to his feet and walked out of the room, traveling down the well worn hallway to the lav at the end, where he promptly hit his knees and began to sick up for the next twenty minutes. Stress was again getting the better of him. He'd thought the time at Baker Street would have built him back up, but in reality he'd been physically grappling with Sherlock while the man believed John to be a tormentor, or wrestling with him to do his therapy, or to eat, or to sleep, or to _yes you still need your meds don't be an arse about it_. Between all of which, he'd spent more and more time trying to sort his head around Mary. There was nothing left in him for this. 

He washed his face with shaking hands, pale and drawn already and they'd been there what? Twelve hours? A deep breath and a sharp nod, and then John forced himself to walk back to Sherlock's room and quietly settle in a chair at the far end of the tiny room, keeping as far out of the way as possible. 

The next few hours were a lot of- nothing. Sitting, waiting. Mark stopped by to watch the monitors on occasion and try to wake Sherlock. Mycroft did send a text stating he was speaking with the doctors, but nothing else happened.

There was a light knock on the door as the neurologist moved into the room. The small, red haired woman peered at the EEG. "Dr. Watson? I'm Dr. McKenna." The woman turned her attention back to John. 

"Mr. Holmes is displaying symptoms similar to locked-in syndrome. But he has none of the damage we normally associate with that. Nor does he show any neurological symptoms that would indicate seizures or pressure in different parts of the brain. I hesitate to call this a true coma. But in the broad definition of not being able to be roused, even by pain, it is one."

John nodded, unfocused, not at all his typical decorum. "I don't want to insult you by asking if you've checked and re-checked the effects of all his medications, but I'm going to anyhow. Have you gotten with a pharmacist and looked over the anesthetics and the post-surgical drugs?" Of course they had, but he had to ask anyhow. 

_He's in a goddamn coma. It's over. Too much stress on his body and he's quit. His heart will go next._

"I don't blame you for asking. We have. I spent some time on the phone with his brother earlier. He indicated that Mr. Holmes is prone to ignoring things he does not like?" McKenna was trying to get a bead on both John and Sherlock. It was obvious the doctor sitting by the bedside was near distraught over this.

John looked down at his hands. "I've been with him. He's been properly on his meds, but yeah, he ignores things he doesn't want to deal with. I've kept a close watch, I swear I've kept a close watch. He's been neurologically fine. Bit of trouble with PTSD and occasionally needs the sedative you have on your records, but he's...equal strength, no odd tremors, nothing...nothing remarkable. I've been..." he trailed off, closing his eyes. Perhaps he hadn't been watching close enough. He'd been so self-occupied in the last few weeks as Sherlock was more and more independent. 

He curled his shaking fingers in on themselves and spoke flatly to her. "I...I suppose it's possible I wasn't watching him closely enough. He...he's been so much...better. I let my diligence slide."

"Ah, I think you have mistaken my question. I suppose I'm asking you as both his friend and a doctor. Do you think Mr. Holmes capable of just shutting down in order to recuperate. I must admit I've never really seen anything like this and the human brain is, quite frankly, really still a massive mystery as you well know." McKenna watched him before flicking her eyes back to the monitors and down to Sherlock.

Something dark and cold twisted in John's chest at the suggestion. He drew in a slow, deep breath, nodding. "Yeah," he whispered, wringing his hands in agitation, "yeah if...if he didn't want to be...here...yeah he could do that. Didactic memory, does that mental mapping. Calls it his 'Palace,' but it's that mnemonic memorization business and he's made an Olympic feat of it. He...could do this willingly if..." 

He exhaled a harshly trembling breath and closed his eyes as his throat swelled on him. Deep enough to not react to pain was not something Sherlock had done before, but if he didn't want to be awake, he would decidedly be able to do this intentionally. Pained betrayal whispered around his heart, squeezing too hard for the organ to beat properly. It took him a moment to speak again. 

"Yes. Sherlock Holmes has a mind that you've likely never encountered before. I'd not put much of anything past him."

The doctor nodded at that. "Well, I'm going to continue monitoring and well, he's technically in a coma. But I do hold out hope that your friend here is just being as difficult as his brother informed me he could be."

\---

Sherlock threw the tea set against the window. "I didn't do it on purpose you bloody idiots! I would have told John!"

Jim looked over the top of his newspaper and made a face. "I'm not cleaning that up."

Sherlock turned a thunderous look on Jim, opening his mouth to shout at him. He was stymied by a pointed flick of the newspaper and Jim once again disappearing behind it. The soft chair Sherlock sank into did nothing to improve his mood.

\---

John did not respond to her, not trusting his voice. He waited until they were alone before getting up and moving to stand next to Sherlock. "I don't understand why you are doing this," he whispered, clearly pained, unable to keep a steady tone. "I'm… h-have I not been… if I had known this was a risk I'd have told you. I would have taken you back to have an ultrasound and get it fixed. I honestly didn't know, Sherlock. I mean, yeah it's on the list of risks but I- I didn't know it was happening to _you_ and,” John took in a ragged breath, “I know I didn't keep you safe. It was my job to make sure you were okay and I fucked it up. You don't need… need to _leave_ me I-" he dragged a hand down his face, taking slow, deep breaths before he was sick. 

He moved back over to the window, resuming the position he'd been in most of the previous evening, arms wrapped tight around himself. The weight of guilt came roaring back as though it had never left, bending his posture, straining his shoulders. He stared at the grounds, at the people passing below, going about their business, wondering absently what Mary was up to and how she was feeling. Not that it particularly mattered. She was fine without him. She was fine. 

He closed his eyes, head pounding, and settled in for the wait.

\--  
Sherlock raged at the doors to his palace, throwing himself against them as Jim looked on. "I'm here. For God's sake, John! I'm not doing this on purpose!"

The next two weeks passed in a haze for John, and he hardly noticed the slow drain of time. He would drink water, eat enough to sustain himself without tasting anything, and shift Sherlock on the bed to ensure nothing became sore. Otherwise, John simply existed in the same room as Sherlock. 

At the two week mark John stood under the spray of the shower, urged into a proper wash by one of the nurses. The water didn’t register as he began to shave for the first time in... It didn't matter. There was no relief in caring for himself. He went through the motions and then dressed, taking care of his teeth before plodding back to Sherlock's room and yet again taking up his chair. A meal sat in the corner, the smell of which turned his stomach and made him feel even more sick than he already was. He looked up at Sherlock, hopeful that the man had at least moved in the last hour he was away. 

"I want to go home," he whispered sadly to himself, abruptly bordering tears. He leaned back in the chair and stared up at the ceiling, waiting for anything at all.

\--

In his waking moments, Sherlock spent the two weeks trying to find a way out of his mind palace. Jim took to following along to torment him whenever he failed. Sherlock was amazed to find that he slept while locked in his mind, but he did. He sat with his back against the doors to his mind palace, his head hitting them with a rhythmic thump when one of the doors cracked open

Jim grinned as he watched Sherlock go to his knees facing the door and peer out before pushing with all his might. 

In the hospital room, one of Sherlock's eyes opened halfway.

John was oblivious to everything go on in Sherlock's mind. He'd taken to keeping his eyes away from Sherlock's body, unable to stand the shock of twisting fear looking at him like that again. The feeling of being helpless was overwhelming. He paced along the thin wall with the window, looking down on the lawn when he wasn’t in his own head.

Little by little, Sherlock was able to push the doors open all the way and his eyes followed suit. He couldn't make his mouth work. Somehow he was sitting in the doorway of his mind palace. The feel of Jim patting him on the shoulder was as real as John pacing by the window. He was desperate to get John's attention.

Sherlock swore colorfully in his mind and lashed out. 

Jim found himself pinned beneath Sherlock as he shouted at him. He just giggled as he looked up at Sherlock. "Watson's paying no attention. He doesn't care anymore."

Sherlock snarled, trying to choke Jim as the smaller man cackled. "John _loves_ me." The shout was resounding in his mind and he screamed John's name while trying to kill Jim, somehow still observing both places. As he screamed John's name in his head, it was whispered aloud in the hospital room.

John spun around as he heard his name, finding Sherlock with his eyes heavily lidded but open. His feet moved automatically as he swept a hand over Sherlock's forehead, the other reaching down and grabbing Sherlock's hand. 

"Sherlock," he said as his head swam, ducking so that Sherlock could better see him, "Oh thank _god._ Come back up, you're fine. I know you're angry with me but I'll take you home and you can shout at me there." His voice was tight, strained as he stared at the man, something feeling deeply _off_ about the way Sherlock was looking at him. "Sherlock?"

Sherlock was trying, his movements in his mind frantic as he abandoned Jim. _Not on purpose it wasn't on purpose. John please. This isn't on purpose. I love you. Please._ His fists continued to beat against the half open doors, desperate to just wake up.

After nearly three minutes Sherlock got a broken sentence out. "Trapped in palace, not angry. Tired." Sherlock didn't know how long he could continue before he had to rest. This is exhausting.

John was struggling to understand him. He leaned in close, squeezing Sherlock's hand. "Hey," he whispered quietly, sweeping his hand again and again over Sherlock's forehead. "You're not trapped, there isn't anything holding you down. You're physically well, or at least well enough that this isn't from injury. You're okay, stay with me. Stay with me, Sherlock." 

He kept his face at a distance easy for Sherlock to focus on, his stomach turning. "Don't go. Please."

God it was hard. Jim was cackling behind him and Sherlock channeled all the energy he had into getting out. He was desperate to get out to John. 

"John." Both eyes all the way open. He was going to have to pry himself from his head. "Trying." Fingers twitched against John's hand.

John pressed the call button for Mark before returning his focus to Sherlock. "You're okay, everything's okay. Come out of that, let's just go home? We can just go home, Sherlock." He was careful not to raise his voice, hardly breathing, watching Sherlock closely. He looked as though he were honestly fighting, which was worrying in its own right. He should be able to just pull out of it if he put himself in there. 

Sherlock watched John as bit by bit, Jim and the palace faded out. He looked up when Mark came into the room looking concerned. 

Mark's face lit up when he saw Sherlock's eyes. "Well hello there. How are you feeling?" He drifted closer to the bed as he took in the whole picture and his smile faded back to concern. 

Sherlock's voice was stilted, "Trying to get out."

Mark looked up to John in question.

John gently carried on sliding his palm over Sherlock's forehead, trying to give him stimuli to chase. "He's saying he's trapped. Tired. Think he's trying to say he didn't do this intentionally. He's been struggling here for about ten minutes now." 

Sherlock let out a sigh of relief as he was able to nod to what John said. "Yes."

John kept his eyes on Sherlock, concern twisting his gut. "You're doing fine Sherlock, keep at it, neuro says you're fine. Come on." 

Mark nodded. "Alright, Sherlock. You're coming out well. We've got you, John's right here. Your lab work is good, your head looks good. Just come on up for us."

Sherlock leaned into John's touch, "Am okay, just hard. I was trapped. Couldn't get out of the palace. Woke up in there." It was slow coming, but everything was picking back up.

John exhaled a deeply wavering breath, tension bleeding out of his shoulders. The last two weeks had been impossible. He let go of Sherlock, save for the connection at their hands, and slowly sat down as his legs went to jelly. 

He pressed his hand over his eyes and leaned his elbow on the bed beside Sherlock's shoulders. "You're not trapped. It's okay," he whispered just as he sat.

Sherlock squeezed John's hand as he laid there. There was a small shake of his head. "I'm not trapped _now_. But I've been trying for _days_ to get out of my head. You said-" A small frustrated noise came from Sherlock. "I didn't do this on purpose. I wasn't angry with you."

Mark watched them for a moment. "I'm just going to go call neuro and let Dr. McKenna know you're awake." It was obvious they needed a moment and Mark intended to give it to them. He slipped out of the room, sliding the door shut behind him.

John did not trust himself to move. "I- I thought..." he shook his head and trailed off, overwhelmingly relieved that Sherlock was awake again. "Just… give m-me a second to… be disappointed with me in a minute," he whispered, holding tight to Sherlock's hand, grinding pressure to his eyes. 

Sherlock sucked in a breath. "Not disappointed. God, no, I'm not. Please. I just wanted you to know I am not and I was not angry. I was completely unable to open the doors and come out of it. I threw things and generally made a mess, but I was trapped until now... and even then it was a struggle."

John leaned his head down on the bed beside Sherlock's elbow as his stomach rolled hard, feeling sick in the wake of relief. "Okay," he whispered, keeping thumb and pointer pinched to his eyes. 

Sherlock took a deep breath and ran his hand over his face. "I am sorry, John."

John shook his head without picking it up from the bedding. "Not your fault," he whispered, "I'm just… I’ve been worried. They couldn't find a reason..." 

His heart was still pounding in his ears, even though there was no particular reason for it to.

Sherlock nodded to himself. "Brain told me it was my body needing to recuperate. Well, Moriarty told me that. It's all the same these days. I should not be exhausted, but I am."

John sat up then, hearing the exhaustion in Sherlock's voice. "Wait," he breathed swiftly, squeezing Sherlock's hand. "Wait just… just let neuro come see you first. Please." He could not keep himself steady, whispered panic creeping up his spine, blooming gooseflesh across his skin, sinking into the constant nausea he'd felt since watching Sherlock go to his knees on the pavement. 

Sherlock nodded. "I'm awake. Trying, John." Both eyes closed as he yawned. "Still awake." He forced his eyes back open and watched John. The click of heels down the hall heralded the entrance of Dr. McKenna before she actually came in. 

"Hello, Mr. Holmes."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes as he looked at her. "Your wife is blonde and tall, likely Swedish." 

The woman merely arched a brow. "Well, certainly seem to be no lingering effects then. Your brother was correct." She walked Sherlock through normal tests, with Sherlock growing more irritated with each one. "Well, it appears your brain just shut you down to let your body heal... Strange but not completely unheard of. I'd like to keep you in observation for a few days."

John's reaction was swift and sharp. "No," he clipped, shaking his head. "I'm taking him home. He's _fine_. We are going to go home." He spoke with such conviction it was as though walking out of the hospital would guarantee that Sherlock did not have any other medical trouble. Days of observation were intolerable. They were going _home._

McKenna looked up to John and arched a brow. "Dr. Watson... Please don't make this difficult for all of us."

Sherlock squeezed John's hand. "It's okay, John. It is. I'm going to be alright. If I need to stay a couple more days, it's not going to hurt anything."

John glared at the woman, entirely done with her. "You yourself said there is nothing on with him. He's fine. What do you need to keep him under observation for, unless you've _missed something_ and won't cop to it. He's neurologically normal, and medically well. He has a live-in physician. I want to take him home." 

Sherlock loathed hospitals, often frightened by them. Maybe that was making it worse. Whatever it was, John was entirely ready to pack up and be done with this. Dr. McKenna's assuming attitude was grating John entirely and he wanted her gone, she'd done fuckall for Sherlock thus far.

The small woman drew herself up, "I can and will have you _out_ of this room and hospital, Dr. Watson. I'd rather not. The facts remain that _we don't know_ what happened to Mr. Holmes. He needs to be observed to make sure nothing else is going on now that he is awake. Now, you can stop with whatever this is and continue to keep your friend company, or you can leave." She was braced for an onslaught, it wasn't the first time she'd gone toe to toe with family members.

Sherlock discreetly pushed the button, hoping Mark would come along.

Rage shredded through John's gut as he pushed himself to his feet slowly, giving her a predatory, tight lipped shadow of a smile. "That would prove humiliating for you, trying to have me out. The _whatever this is_ that has you so confused is a keen ability to identify useless medical staff who have overstepped their bounds. You've not done a whit of good for him. The last _two weeks_ of your observing has reflected your competence." 

His breathing was so tight that he was slightly wheezing on each exhalation, nearly inside out with how _fucking done_ he was with all of this.

Dr. McKenna did not move or back down, "Think of what you're doing, Dr. Watson. Your little display of aggression has no effect on me. You aren't the only soldier here." She glanced to Sherlock who had gone white. "But I'm not the only other person in this room.”

That was not John. Sherlock fidgeted, hands shaking. He was hooked up to tubes again and aggression seeped through the air as confusion set in, kicked up by the combination of everything. Where am I? Hospital? No… back in that room?

John glanced down at Sherlock and silently swore to himself. He knew that distant, frightened look of hazy confusion all too well. "Get the fuck out," he breathed to the doctor, reaching down and putting a hand to the side of Sherlock's face, keeping Sherlock's attention focused on him. 

He leaned down slowly then, constantly speaking, his voice gentle and calm as he could make it, all while his own insides twisted horribly. "Hey, Sherlock, look at me," he instructed, sliding just the pads of his fingers into Sherlock's hair above his ear, "you're safe, everything is okay. London. You're okay. I didn't mean to frighten you.

McKenna met Mark in the hall, quietly explaining what was going on to him over the next few minutes. 

Sherlock looked at John and sniffled slightly. "I- for a minute, I thought- I'm sorry. I'm sorry. I don't know what to do. I don't know what I'm supposed to do.”

John shook his head and brushed his thumb along Sherlock's cheekbone. "Nothing, you just rest. You're not supposed to do anything. I'm just trying to take you home, all you need to do is rest. Keep out of your Mind Palace, okay? Just… normal rest. That's all. I'm sorry I made you question where you are. Just rest." 

Sherlock leaned into the touch. "I want to go home. I'm so tired. I don't feel like I should. Head is off, funny..." He closed his eyes as he rested there. "I didn't mean to frighten you."

John nodded, tipping his forehead to Sherlock's. "Sleep tonight and I'll take you home tomorrow. I know you didn't do this. Just rest, Sherlock, I'll get it all sorted with Mark." 

He could hear the doctors speaking with one another out in the hall. He shook his head and looked back at Sherlock. "Just get some sleep."

Sherlock nodded and leaned into John. "Okay... home tomorrow." He closed his eyes, letting out a soft, sleepy sigh. "Wake me in the morning and we'll go home."

John held Sherlock's hand, not responding to him as Sherlock swiftly began to sink down into sleep. While that concerned John, his primary focus was on the damn woman in the hallway and what it was that Mark was going to say. John was ready to bloody have it out, how _dare_ she threaten him like that after all he and Sherlock had endured. It dawned on him in the next moment that he should contact Mycroft. 

_He woke up! Lucid, struggled hard for consciousness, says it wasn't intentional and I believe him. This McKenna woman is going to drive me mental, already threatening to toss me out. I am taking Sherlock home tomorrow, reserve a car for us will you?_

Mycroft texted back after a few minutes.

_I will have everything arranged, John. Thank you for the welcome update._

Mycroft frowned at his phone as he contemplated John's text. Dr. McKenna had seemed competent and more than willing to listen to him. There was a question there that begged asking. How was John Watson doing? Middle and ring fingers pressed to his temples as he attempted to assuage the headache he had.

Sick to death of listening to the doctors in the hallway, John simply walked out and let himself in on the conversation. He smiled tightly at Mark and ignored McKenna. "He was lucid, just tired. All you lot has done all week is tell me that he's medically fine. In light of that, I cannot see a reason to keep him here. He's exhausted, so I'll just take him in the morning."

Mark's eyebrows nearly disappeared into his hairline. "Since when are we the enemy, John? If you'll recall we've saved that man's life numerous times now. We are _not_ the enemy here. I don't appreciate being spoken to that way. Medically, he _appears_ to be sound. I agree with Dr. McKenna's assessment that he needs to be observed. But _Sherlock_ is welcome to take himself home against medical advice tomorrow."

John's entire demeanor shifted as Mark rebuffed him. He drew himself up to his proper height, reclaiming his posture, expression shuttered off and hard. "No. _You've_ saved his life, this woman here hasn't done anything of measurable value other than threaten me in front of Sherlock, simply for calling her medical opinion into question. Though by all means, protocol is protocol. Sherlock will just sign himself out tomorrow, and I'll take him home. You know I'm grateful for your exhaustive efforts, Doctor." 

John pulled professional distance around him like a cloak, buffering himself against them. He was being spoken to as some… some average _friend_ of a patient's, as though he'd not occupied the floor for months before hand, nearly always maintaining his composure.

Mark scrubbed a hand over his face and Dr. McKenna just walked away. Mark's voice softened. "John, I'm trying to understand. I am. I know you two are sick of this place, but we have no explanation for what's been going on other than 'he's Sherlock.' It isn't much to go on and frankly it scares the hell out of me thinking of sending him home so soon after waking up from what we could only classify as a coma, more specifically as locked-in syndrome which almost _never_ spontaneously recovers... John, you two are the only people to come through my care that I would consider calling _friends_ okay? It's why I called while you two were at home. I had no professional reason to ring you up and check on you."

John's posture did not shift as he watched the woman walk away. Finally he looked back at Mark and nearly instantly deflated, his shoulders drooping, exhaustion clear in his voice. "There _can't_ be anything else. There can't. I have to take him home because there _cannot be any-fucking-thing else._ " A shiver tore its way up his spine, making him visibly shudder. He was so entirely responsible for everything Sherlock had already endured. How could he stack something else on top of it? What if there was damage to Sherlock's _brain_? Sherlock would never, ever forgive him for that, not ever. In John's exhausted mind, taking Sherlock home removed those threats. Home meant Sherlock was healthy and healing. This place meant Sherlock was fucking _dying_ and John could not bloody take it anymore. "He… he was okay. He has to stay that way. There can't be anything else. There can't."

Mark nodded and put a hand on John's shoulder. "We'll see how he is in the morning, okay? I really think this is Sherlock's brain being peculiar and locking him up while his body heals. His brain is a very strange thing. You've not slept or eaten properly. If I bring you something to eat, will you have dinner with me?"

John shook his head. "I'll be sick if I eat. I can eat tomorrow when we are home. Sherlock is fine, he just needed more sleep. That's all. He's not in a coma, he's sleeping right now. When he wakes up he'll… he'll want to go home and I'm going to take him. Home. And he'll rest and in a few days it will be fine. Maybe the blood loss just took it out of him. He's… he's okay." 

John was in a very dangerous place... But Mark didn't push him. He couldn't afford to right then. John Watson was strung tighter than anyone he'd ever seen. "Okay, John. Alright. Let us know if there's anything you need. Okay?"

John nodded and turned wordlessly back to Sherlock's room, walking over to the chair beside the bed. He eased down beside Sherlock and took his hand, one eye on the door, one on his monitors. He almost asked for a coffee, but that would likely draw unwanted attention, so instead he shifted his mind, demanding it remain awake. Perhaps if he had been awake when Sherlock slipped into a coma the last time, he'd have seen some indication of it and prevented that from happening.

Sherlock slept on. He noticed nothing for hours, not until a singsong voice sounded next to his ear.

“Oh, Sherlock. Did you really think you were getting out that easily? Your body is mending dear. Do let it.”

Large hands raked through dark curls and Sherlock could only whimper John’s name as he found himself once again trapped in his own mind.


	20. Chapter 20

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Almost done... Enjoy.

John shook himself awake for the hundredth time, listening to the familiar sounds of the night shift giving over to the day workers. He scrubbed his hands over his eyes and stretched. John got to his feet and let himself leave long enough to grab a coffee. If they were going home, it was going to be a few hours more before he could fall into bed and properly sleep. 

He blinked the grit away as he walked back, sipping at the scalding liquid. Sherlock was still asleep, but John was eager to get the paperwork going on first morning rounds. Mark would be expecting it, and they might get home by lunch. He set the steaming cup down and walked over to Sherlock's side, calling out to him as he took his hand. 

When he got no reaction, John sighed and called out louder, squeezing Sherlock's fingers. "Sherlock, come on. We'll go home and you can sleep the rest of the day. Wake up." 

As the seconds ticked by and John slowly escalated his efforts, worry settled in as his stomach twisted. "Sherlock, please… open your eyes. I'll let you go right back to sleep. You're just sleeping. It's just sleep. You can open your eyes. Open your eyes, Sherlock, please," he carried on, panic edging into his voice. 

Ten minutes later, John was dropped down in his chair, staring at Sherlock with tears blurring his vision. He kept hold of Sherlock's hand, sniffing and trying to get a handle on himself as he spoke roughly, remembering that Sherlock had heard him before. "It's o-okay, we'll figure it out. It's okay. Don't… don't throw things. You'll be… be fine and tomorrow we'll go home. Tomorrow. Just… I- I'm right here. We'll...I m-make them figure it out."

\---

Jim stared at Sherlock as he sat with his back to the window, thumping his head against the glass in agitation. Sherlock had his hands on one of the bookshelves, ready to toss it to the ground in a fit of frustrated rage when John asked him not to throw things... So he settled in his window and took to bouncing his head off the pane rhythmically. 

Jim walked up to him, standing toe-to-toe, hands in his pockets and staring at Sherlock in amused irritation. Moments later he walked away and, as a dream would have it, reappeared with tea.

Sherlock looked up when a tray full of his favorite things was settled in front of him. "Even Mrs. Hudson's biscuits?"

Jim hummed. "Indeed. It would appear I am your interim babysitter. Ghastly business, that."

\---

Three hours passed, finding Mark at Sherlock’s bedside as he rubbed his temples. "We've set up remote monitoring of the EEG. I know you don't like her, but McKenna is damned good. We've gone over everything in the past few days. Sherlock is awake and alert as far as we can tell. He's sleeping and waking. It's a form of locked-in syndrome his body appears to be forcing on him. He's come up once but John... I think that was like last time. He came up for you. Let's…” he trailed off, pulling his eyes from the worryingly pale Dr. Watson to Sherlock. Mark leaned in and dropped his voice as he spoke to him. “Christ. Sherlock, you take your time but hurry up, alright?"

John’s world zeroed down to three little words. 

_Like last time._

The color drained from John's face and he slowly sank down into the nearest chair, mouth watering as nausea twisted his insides. He shook his head as he dropped his elbows to his knees, hands raking through his hair as he supported his head. His shoulder blades suddenly pinched together as his stomach heaved, knowing he was going to vomit but keeping in his chair; he would collapse if he tried to get up. 

A low, quiet groan of distress made its way loose from his chest as his stomach kicked on him again, ears ringing in a shrill single tone, cold sweat on his brow. This wasn't happening. It wasn't happening. They were done with this. It was over and he was going to sort out how to be a dad and what to do with Mary and how to keep Sherlock and _this wasn't fucking happening._

His mouth flooded with saliva just before he had the wherewithal to open his eyes and grab the nearest bin, violently sicking up, gold spots erupting across his vision. He was unaware of the heavy tears sliding down his face as he dropped a forearm over the edge of the bin, supporting his forehead on his arm as his body attempted to turn itself inside out.

Mark swore softly and gathered both a cool wet cloth and a dry one. "John, oh- John, it's alright. He's okay. He's going to be okay. Sherlock came up to tell us what was happening. He's just going to sleep,okay? Talk to him during the day and we'll get him through this." The doctor crouched in front of John with the cloths. 

"What can I get you?"

John's stomach finally quieted nearly ten minutes after it started, leaving his face a mess and his entire body shaking hard. He took the wet rag from Mark and brought it to his face, holding it over his eyes. "H-he needs you, not m-me. I'm fine, j-just a dramatic i-idiot," he whispered, sliding the cloth carefully over his nose and mouth. He felt as one does the day after a sunburn; too exposed and off in body temperature, shaky and weak. He set the cloth aside and pulled his mobile from his pocket, his breathing audibly hitching as he fought off the burn of tears. 

_Sherlock has slipped back into a coma._

He sent the text to Mycroft with a tight band of stress squeezing the life out of his ribs, swiftly dashing the back of his hand across his face as a tear splashed over the screen of the phone, flaring abject shame and humiliation through his bones.

Mark shook his head. "John. Sherlock is going to be fine. He needs rest. You on the other hand need rest, food, and likely something to settle your nerves. Please, let me help you."

Mycroft swiftly responded to the text, the small interval of time between John hitting send and the elder brother’s reply belaying his concern.

_Do you need me to come to hospital? -MH_

"Sherlock is in a bleeding _coma_ and no one fucking knows _why_ ," John nearly shouted at Mark in return, dropping his voice least Sherlock hear him. He tried to drag in a proper breath, raking his hands through his hair in severe agitation. "Last time he just kept dying. He just- what happens when his heart start failing? That's next to go, his heart. How many more rounds do you think Mycroft will let you lot go now that there is obviously something wrong with his brain?" 

He suddenly shut himself up. If he knew something was wrong with Sherlock's brain, then so did Mycroft. Mycroft would know there was something wrong with Sherlock's brain because of _him._ "G-god," he breathed, still holding tight to his hair as he dropped his head back down, elbows on his shaking thighs, "god I've- he's-" he shook his head, heartsick.

Mark held up his hands. “Alright, John. Breathe for me.” He honestly wasn’t sure what to do for John. The man had reached the end of whatever rope he had.

"I'm sorry, Mark, I'm sorry," John whispered, staring back down at his feet, shame twisting in his gut. "I know y-you're trying to help. I'm fine, I'll be fine. He...he just needs sleep. It's like sleep. He's… he'll come back, he'll come back and..." he shook his head and made himself go quiet, realizing that he'd been rambling. 

"John, this is terrifying. I know it is. I am sorry this is happening, okay? It's alright. Really, it isn't unexpected that you'd be this upset, okay? I'll do whatever I can for you." Mark looked at John and gave a small smile. "Let me get you something to settle your stomach, yeah? We'll do that much? Just one pill under your tongue and maybe a cuppa?"

John nodded, beyond eager to get the nausea slowed down. He ran a hand over his face and looked back up at Sherlock, his expression instantly crumbling as tears blurred his vision. He closed his eyes and looked away, exhaling a sharply wavering breath. 

Mark reached up and hit the nurse call button, a nurse coming in shortly after. "There's a kit, Anne, in my things. Will you bring it?" The woman nodded, slipping back out quietly. Mark dragged the stool over in front of John and sat there. "Not leaving you, okay? You don't have to go through this alone right now.

John nodded, not daring to speak, brilliantly grateful for his current companion. His composure was as solid as spun glass and even that was taking a great deal of mental energy to maintain. He gripped the back of his neck, struggling with panic as it screamed for his attention. 

_You can't do this, you're too damned weak. Weakness got you into this mess, didn't it? Everything that's gone sideways in your pathetic life has stemmed from how impossibly weak you are, and no matter how hard you try and mask it, the structural flaws will cave and everything you love will be gone. Likely already is. You're going to lose him. He's going to die, and you damn well know it._

_Have you thought of the Thames? Could make it look like an accident. Get pissed, fucking blind drunk, walk over, fall in. Mary would get the life insurance and the baby would be cared for and no one else would be fucking subjected to you. You fucking killed him._

John hadn't realized he was making pained sounds of distress until the horrible dialog in his head shut up, leaving him with shining cheeks and twisting nausea.

Mark's voice was quiet as he gazed at John with his kit in his lap. "This- John, can I please give you something for your nerves? You can't go on like this. Quick jab, let you get some rest. I can give you a jab for nausea too." The doctor had brought the kit for John the morning after they'd come back to the hospital. He'd seen this coming. The moment something went wrong with Sherlock Holmes, John Watson was falling apart. Mark did not blame him and it was absolutely warranted.

John was a complete mess by the time he started speaking, shaking his head, his face crumpled in frightened grief. His logical, rational mind was blanketed under too many chemicals brought on by stress, fear, and lack of personal care. "I went to sleep and he-" John breathed, his voice wrecked with tears, "what if his… his heart st-" he grit his teeth and shook his head, his fingers laced tight around the back of his neck. 

"Okay, John. Breathe for me." Mark fished the foil packet with the zofran in it out of the kit. "Here, take this, let's get your stomach settled before you sick up again. Alright?" The foil was pulled back and he held it out to the upset man. "Breathe for me, John."

John forced himself to move. Mark was competent and trying to help him, and he'd lost his composure and had no damn hope of regaining it on his own. He picked up the zofran with terribly trembling fingers and put it under his tongue. Mark sounded distant despite being directly in front of him. The deeper layers of John's skin suddenly rushed cold and his eyes snapped open as he nearly toppled from the chair, wildly reaching out to brace himself on Mark's shoulder. Vision tunneling, John listed forward in a crude attempt at getting his head between his knees.

Mark winced as he helped John hold that position. "John, you've got to let me help you. Please, please let me give you a jab. I'll stay the night in the lounge, his heart monitor can be viewed on my laptop..."

John didn't have it left in him to fight. Five nights hardly sleeping had moved from 'uncomfortable' to 'incredibly dangerous,' and his body was about to force him down. He nodded against his knees, breathing swift and shallow as his hands trembled and he simply gave it up. What could he do for Sherlock if his heart stopped that the ICU team couldn't provide? His mind was disconnected in that sick, swirling way preceding the seconds before blacking out. He could feel it like a train barreling down the tracks and was desperate to stop it. 

Mark didn't wait any longer. He pulled the pre-filled syringe out, rucking up John’s shirt sleeve. He uncapped the needle with his mouth and swiped John’s shoulder with an alcohol wipe, shaking his head as he apologized. "Please forgive me, John. This is going to knock you flat on your arse in this state." The needle was tossed to the metal tray after the shot was given and Mark moved with John, laying him back in the recliner. He yanked the oxygen mask off the wall, cranking it up before pressing it to John's face.

"I have you, John. Breathe. Don’t fight with it, just breathe."

Mycroft was utterly confused at the scene before him.

John groaned as he caught sight of Mycroft, his heart lurching at the expression on the man's face, so disgusted with himself he could hardly stand it. Despite the injection going in his shoulder, darkness was racing up on him too fast to do much of anything besides breathe and close his eyes again, accepting Mycroft's disdain and adding it to his own for himself. There was a fluid rush over his ears before he plunged hard and fast into darkness. 

Mark looked up to Mycroft and back down to John. "Help me get him settled. Poor bastard is at the end of his rope." Mycroft's movements were stiff, but they managed to get John well and properly laid out in the recliner. Mark stood up and rubbed a hand over his face. Over the next few minutes, he quietly explained in calm detail all that had transpired in Mycroft’s absence. 

After explaining all of the medical aspects of Sherlock's situation, he nodded to John. "That bloke's been awake far more than he should be, catching a half hour here and there. He's only been eating enough to keep from collapsing, thank god he listens when the nurses tell him to go bathe. He's been verbally difficult with neuro. I don't know, Mycroft. I've spent a lot of time with John Watson through all these trials with Sherlock, I've not seen him like this."

Mycroft closed his eyes for a moment and breathed deeply before getting up and moving to his brother’s side. He wrapped his hands around the bedding railing, leaning in close. Sherlock's breathing was even, controlled. "Sherlock, please heal as fast as you can. John Watson needs you," he whispered in quiet French, _I need you_ , going unsaid. The elder Holmes turned his attention back to Mark. "I will stay in the family area. John should not be alone." 

So much fighting for them both. So much sacrificed to protect them. Mycroft could not allow them to self-destruct.

Mark nodded and assured Mycroft he'd update him if anything changed. "I sedated John, he'll be down for the next four hours regardless of if he wants to or not, hopefully we can get him to eight. I'll be here all night, I don't want any other physician working with them just now unless it's neurology. On a good note, Sherlock's liver panels continue to improve. There does not appear to be any permanent damage." 

Mycroft nodded. "That is welcome news. Thank you, for all you've done for the both of them." John looked worse than he ever had before. It could be attributed to his sibling's predilection for trouble though. "I'm going to go settle in there, I’ve work that cannot be delayed. If anything happens, you know where to find me, yes?"

Mark nodded as he set about tending to Sherlock and John. He fanned a blanket out over John to keep him warm, dialing back the O2 flow a bit. he'd let John have that for a while, hopefully easing the strain on his body. 

When Mycroft had left, he whispered softly to Sherlock. "Don't worry about John, I've got him. Just heal up, that's all you need to focus on, Sherlock."

\---

Sherlock sat in the window as Jim spoke. "Big brother sounds off, something's wrong. You can hear the slight limp in the rustle of clothes. Something's going oooonnnn." Jim's voice was sing-song, playfully dragging out the words, taunting Sherlock as he focused on the troubling _Problem with Mycroft_.

The detective's eyes narrowed as he turned to Jim. "Yes, yes I could. John is down, but he is recoverable. My brother, however…” he tilted his head to the side, fingers tented under his chin, “something is very, very wrong." This he could do. Here was a puzzle, and even trapped in his mind he could work at it. Sherlock leapt from the window seat and went tearing down a hallway toward Mycroft's files.

\---

When John finally woke up the next day, his head was pounding and his pride in ruins. He pushed the blanket off him, hoping to see Sherlock smirking at him from the bed. There was no change though, and so John simply curled back on his side and closed his eyes again, saddened in a bone deep way. 

Mycroft came in not long after bearing coffee, tea, biscuits and a rather alarming assortment of 'light on the stomach' fare. His limp was better, though not gone, and he was heavily favoring his left side. He settled the tray on the small rolling table. "Good morning, John. How are you feeling?" He was caring in his own way, reserved and restrained, though there was no hint of mockery in his voice.

John forced himself to meet Mycroft's eye as he always did, only he had to look away swiftly. "Like a proper idiot," he whispered, staring at the space just over Mycroft's left shoulder. "I didn't intend to make you come here. I'm fine, Mycroft, just let myself get too worn down." He was nowhere near caught up on his sleep, but the hours he managed had done a world of good.

"John, I don't mind. I wanted to come see him anyhow..." Mycroft sat himself in the regular chair, leaning to his right. "You are not an idiot, just exhausted. You're entitled to be. You've done nothing but care for my brother for several months."

John hummed, nodding slightly at that. "He's done nothing but try and care for me." He scrubbed a hand over his face and forced himself to lean forward, taking up a soft biscuit and breaking off a bit before trying to eat. He so deeply wanted to fix what had been done, to crank back time and just… just _what_ , he wasn't sure. Not this. But then he'd have lost Mary, or maybe he already had, and that child that was coming would-

He had to stop, nausea making him think twice on the biscuit.

Mycroft watched him as he sipped his coffee. “John, is there anything I can do for you? Anything at all. You’ve done so much. I know he’s been doing what he can… but I know it’s been hard.”

John set the food down and reached for tea instead, feeling dizzy and worn down. "No. I just need him to get better. That's all. I appreciate it though."

There was nothing for it but to wait. Sherlock had simply experienced too much trauma, all John could hope for now was recovery.

Mycroft nodded. "I'm going to be staying in the family room for a few days. I have some things that can be done from here on my computer. I'd like to keep the both of you company."

\---

Sherlock Holmes was convinced this must be what hell was: Every deep dark secret he'd hidden away concerning Mycroft was back in the light. 

Jim sat atop a filing cabinet swinging his legs, observing Sherlock and reading over his shoulder.

"Big Brother is an interesting character..."

"Go away, Jim! Why aren't you Molly, or Anderson even!?"

Jim giggled, "Because neither of them could possibly help you half as well and you know it."

Sherlock groaned and let his head hit the desk where he was sitting. A picture tipped over, landing with a resounding smack. Sherlock's head lifted just enough to peer at it, eyes narrowing. Long fingers wrapped around the frame and he pulled it to himself. He drew in a sharp breath, heralding a realization that snapped into place. Sherlock tore off for another part of the room, rifling through a file.

\---

John had a bit of tea and made his way back to his chair without another word, hands shaking and pale. He curled up and started at Sherlock for the next hour, caught up in his own head, feeling small and sick.

Eight days passed with no outward change. Mycroft was forced to return to work. Sherlock failed to mark the passage of time; he was on a case. While his mind was occupied with its puzzle, his body healed. Both McKenna and Mark marveled at the massive amount of activity going on in Sherlock's brain. Mark had never been one for staring at EEGs, he found neurology still had too much guesswork for his tastes... but Sherlock Holmes was a different story.

John scraped himself out of the shower and moved back down the hall to Sherlock's room. The nights in hospital found John nearly mute, withdrawn and distant. He hardly responded to Mark, and made a point of leaving the room when McKenna came to check on Sherlock. Mark was shoving antiemetics down his throat as often as John would let him, though he carried on refusing any sort of sedative. At this point, the panic had long subsided, giving way to gripping depression. He was resigned in a way that he'd never quite been since tossing the first handful of dirt on Sherlock's casket. 

He settled back in his chair, staring across the room with unfocused eyes, simply waiting.

\---

Sherlock let out a small strangled noise in his head as he put everything together. 

Jim looked up, grim expression on his face. "More than one person you have to save, Sherlock," he said as he carried on returning papers and photographs into files and storing them away as they had been.

Sherlock pushed to his feet from his seat on the floor. "Keep the pertinent files on the desk. I'll need easy access to them." He donned the Belstaff with a large flourish as he strode toward the exit. Sherlock flung both doors open without hesitation.

When he’d stepped out of his mind palace, he was rather disgusted to find that he'd been fitted with an NG tube and catheter again. "I want these bloody tubes out. I need out of hospital as fast as is safe." His voice croaked from disuse but was strong. Sherlock Holmes was back... mentally at least. His body had to catch up.

John nearly toppled out of his chair, scrambling to his feet and mashing down on the red call button as soon as he got to Sherlock's side. He looked down on the man with red-rimmed eyes and eight days growth on his chin, snatching a penlight from beside the bed as he looked Sherlock over. "Don't you dare go back to sleep," John managed in a tight, rough voice, flicking the light across Sherlock's pupil and ignoring him as he fussed. John's trembling finger hit the button on one of Sherlock's many monitors to activate the cuff, starting vitals, his gut twisted up tight. "Please, keep your eyes open. Don't sleep, please don't sleep."

Sherlock's mind was as fast as ever and he narrowed his eyes. "How long? I couldn't keep up, too busy in there. Over a week judging by your face. I'm fine, John. I'm fine. I won't be going back down like that. My body is back where I need it. I can feel it."

Mark came flying into the room. Sherlock looked nonplussed and John like he'd seen a ghost. "Christ, Sherlock..."

John backed up to give Mark space, too bloody shaken to work on Sherlock at the moment. The shock of him finally waking up, pared with scalding hurt that Sherlock's words inflicted. It sounded as though Sherlock had willfully... John shook his head, putting his palms up as he backed away with a wounded, incredulous smile. He cracked a soft, depreciative laugh at himself as he backed away, stopping when his back hit the far wall. He shoved his hands in his pockets and looked down at his feet before closing his eyes and breathing slow and deep. 

_Of course. Of fucking course_. Sherlock had been working on something and was now kicking and ready to go. It always came down to a case. Always. He shook his head and just walked out before he exploded, waiting until he was at the stairs, taking them slowly as his knees threatened him, to text Mycroft. 

_Your brother is up. He'll be needing, fuck if I know, a ride or something._

Sherlock was yelling at Mark to leave off and for John to come back. He was weak from so little movement over the past two weeks, but he was giving Mark hell all the same. Sherlock tried to get up, to go after John. Mark snapped at him to stay down.

Mycroft's brows knit at the text and his reply was swift.

_What's going on, John?_

John only made it a single flight down before low blood sugar and fatigue got the better of him. He sat on the lowest stair on the second landing, resting his pounding forehead against the cool wall. His chest ached with things that had nothing to do with physiology, heart twisting on Sherlock's words. _I've been busy_. He'd looked _exactly_ as he always did when he came out of a few hours meditation time in his mind, clear-eyed and energized, ready to go to work. John huffed another laugh into the quiet of the stairwell, wrapping an arm around his middle, feeling like nothing more than a toy for the amusement of others. Mary collected him like a pathetic toy soldier, Sherlock wanted him as his loyal lapdog, Harry wanted him as cashflow for a pint, and Mycroft cared for him in the exclusive capacity of what he could do for Sherlock. 

In that moment, he lost sight of the point in its entirety. This was it. This was his life. It would never change, and it would never improve. He was breathing overly fast, aching with his thoughts. Finally he remembered that Mycroft had texted him. He read the question twice before replying. 

_I'm a bleeding idiot and Sherlock has been 'busy.' Think he's just been working a case I don't know about all this time. He's fine. I'm sure you can take him home._

A nurse was frantically calling for him and finally reached the stairwell. "Dr. Watson? Dr. Watson!?" She peered down and spotted him. "Dr. Watson, please. Please come back he won't stay still. We've had to actively restrain him because he's trying to find you. He's shouting at us all and tried to take his tube out of his nose. We can't sedate him. Please."

Sherlock was screaming at Mark to let him go, more and more agitated as time ticked by. Mark was trying to calm Sherlock. "I've sent someone after him. Okay? You cannot get out of bed yet, Sherlock!"

John inhaled deep and slow, trying to center himself. He repeated the act several times as his head swam. Christ, he just wanted to leave. Carefully John pulled himself up, swaying slightly where he stood until the stars faded from his vision. He held the railing as he made his way up and towards the woman, following her back down to Sherlock's room with his jaw set. He said nothing at all to Sherlock as he walked back in, passing the bed and slowly sinking back down into his chair where he dutifully waited, dropping his head into his hands, struggling to brace for whatever shit Sherlock was about to throw his way. 

"Get out, Mark, that can be left until later. Let me out of the restraints. Please. I'll not try and pull anything." Sherlock's voice was calm once more and Mark swore. 

Mark pointed a finger at Sherlock. "Don't pull anything, please. Breaking so many different protocols here." He undid Sherlock's wrists and ankles before stalking out of the room.

Sherlock took a deep breath. "John, I couldn't come up until now. But I did work a case while I was under. I'm not- I don't think it prudent to reveal the details yet... but I need to recover as quickly as possible." His gaze turned to John. "There are things at stake here. So many things." 

The man was quiet for long moments. "You're the only person who has ever stayed with me so much. Thank you. John, I meant what I said at the wedding. It's always you. Something's wrong with Mycroft. I could hear it. The way he's been moving is wrong. I think I have it figured out... I want to do Christmas. All of us. Mary, you, Mycroft... out at my parents. Will you do that with me?"

John's shoulders moved as if laughing, though he made no sound. He kept his eyes down to his lap, struggling hard with this wild shift in his day to day reality. Sherlock had been hard in a fucking coma less than half an hour ago and here he was trying to plan bloody Christmas dinner. With his murderous wife. John pressed his palms over his face and breathed deep and slow in an effort to keep himself steady. When he dropped his hands away, he shook his head and spoke with nothing short of pure resignation. 

"Whatever you want, Sherlock."

Sherlock sighed as he watched John. There was no time to explain. Not here, or now. Eventually, maybe. "My apologies for putting you through such hell, John. Please know I've never intended you harm."

John looked at his hands in his lap and closed his eyes after a moment. "You never do. I'm glad you're feeling better." He wanted to get up and walk out, just walk out, find a pub, and drink himself to oblivion. He sat beside Sherlock, soaking in worthlessness, resigned to his fate. "What do you need from me?"

Sherlock stared at John. He didn't speak for several minutes. When he did he was quiet. "Just take care of you."

John looked up at Sherlock then, his chest aching as his heart rebelled against him. He had no idea why his brain decided to start running his mouth, but he was far too exhausted to care. "I've been moving you. The… I know how stiff scar tissue can get. Been… taking care of it for you," he whispered. He'd worked a decent lotion into the copious marks at Sherlock's back, rolling Sherlock's shoulders and ensuring he'd been properly stretched so the tissue would not be stiff and painful. 

_Lapdog._

He slid a hand over the back of his neck and squeezed tight. "I thought...l-last time you...this happened you were… I-" he'd thought Sherlock trapped in his head with Moriarty tormenting him, just waiting for Sherlock's heart to stop, useless to stop Sherlock's suffering. He exhaled and dropped his hands to his lap. "I'm glad you can fix yourself. I can't do fuckall for anyone."

"John Watson... you stop that. It's only because of you I've survived. I've been locked in my head for days with only my conjured Moriarty. Only the thought of you and fixing the mess my brother seems to have wrapped himself in has kept me-" Sherlock made a pained sound. "I am sorry. I am sorry I have brought you nothing but grief."

John's nails raked against his scalp as he dragged his fingers through his hair, gritting his teeth. "Don't. Don't do that. Please I don't have the energy. Don't… don't do that. I can't make fucking sense of _anything_ but you've- you are my goddamn life Sherlock and it stopped when you were gone and- fuck." He shook his head, looking away from Sherlock as he pressed a fist to his lips, struggling hard with the threat of tears. Where had his rock-steady composure fucking _gone_?

Sherlock watched him and reached out. “John, I’m sorry. I haven’t been hiding on purpose. I promise. I came back as soon as my brain would let me. Please believe me. I- I just need you. I always need you by my side.”

John drew in a sharp breath and leaned closer to Sherlock, finally just resting an elbow on Sherlock's bed with his forehead in his hand, eyes closed and breathing clipped and tight. There was really nothing to say. He would never leave Sherlock, no matter what the man did to him, and the physician in him shouted something about unhealthy co-dependent relationships. He shut that bit right up. John did not entertain any other vice outside of Sherlock Holmes and he wasn't giving that up. Not a chance. 

"You look like a proper idiot with that EEG on your head," he whispered softly, the words meant to be humorous, though John had clearly forgotten how to laugh.

Sherlock snorted at that, "Yeah, but I'm your proper idiot and don't you forget that." His tone had shifted, a warm fondness in it that was for no one but John. "You make up the most of what I have, John. I know it doesn't seem like it sometimes. I take you for granted when I shouldn't... but it's always you, always, John."

John folded his arm and just rest his head down beside Sherlock, eyes closed, breathing deep. "You're not allowed to fight Mark. I've almost been tossed out of here several times, I don't want to give them any more reasons to try. Ripping out tubes is a terrible idea, don't you remember how much that hurt last time? Don't do that again." 

"I won't fight... I won't- I just, you walked out and I panicked." Sherlock took slow, even breaths. "I'm going to fix this. I'm going to fix all of this, somehow."

John was quiet as he kept his head down near Sherlock's elbow, exhaustion taking all the fight out of him. A few minutes passed before he licked his lip and drew in a deep breath, cheek pressed to the bedding, eyes closed. "You keep saying your going to 'fix this' and I never really know what it is that you're trying to fix. Even at home, you kept saying you'd 'fix it.' What are you fixing?" His tone was worn and flat. Sherlock could say just about anything in that moment, and John was sure he'd feel nothing at all. 

Sherlock's voice was pained. "Everything I've managed to muck up in the past few years." Which apparently encompassed Mycroft's life as well now. "I just want things- I just want them back to semi-normal again."

John slowly sat back up and looked at Sherlock, scratching at the growth on his chin. "You can't make anything go back, Sherlock. It's never going to be how it was. Not ever. All you can do is handle what's in front of you." And oh, did John know that lesson very, very well. "At least all the players are alive. The door isn't shut and you can still make something with the people you care about." 

John had spent nearly two years regretting, wanting to take back, wanting to _fix_. But Sherlock had been _dead_ and it was over. He was trapped with his should haves and what ifs and there was no chance of reprieve.

"Handling it is what I'm doing, John. As soon as I can get out of this damned bed I'm going to handle it. Everything is going to be safe. You and Mary will be safe." Sherlock clamped down on the emotions running through him and steered his brain back to the analytic side. 

Mycroft chose that moment to walk in. "For now, you both need rest. I'm told you were combative earlier, Sherlock. Please don't."

Sherlock stared at his brother. Things were unwell in Mycroft's world. He held himself in much the same manner as he always did, but the problems he was having screamed at Sherlock from every wrong movement.

John's pride was already in shreds. He didn't bother looking up at Mycroft. The man sounded at the end of his rope and John made a point not to contact him again. Sherlock was worrying him with this manic talk of he and Mary being safe, but he couldn't keep up with where Sherlock's thoughts were going on a good day. At the moment he was completely lost. 

"We've talked about combative behavior, he's not going to give them any more trouble," he said at last, finally looking over at Mycroft. 

Mycroft and Sherlock stared each other down without speaking for long moments. Sherlock broke the silence. "When did it happen?"

"Don't- Sherlock. Don't analyse me. Not now. I simply do not have the time." Mycroft's voice had taken on a tone Sherlock had only heard a very few times in their lives. Fear. 

Everything Sherlock suspected was cemented in his mind and his plan started solidifying. "I suspect I'll be out in time for Christmas. I'd like us all to go out to see Mummy."

Mycroft spluttered. "Absolutely not."

"Too late. I'll tell her of my intentions and you will be there, Mycroft. So help me."

He sighed. "As you wish, Sherlock. Do behave until then, won't you?" Mycroft stalked back out of the room having had exactly enough of his brother's prying eyes for the time being.

John crossed his arms as he leaned back. Wonderful. That was exactly what he needed. 

"He's the only reason I'm allowed to stay with you. By all means, burn the bridge," he said flatly, not at all understanding what the hell Sherlock was getting up to. Much as John hated it, Mycroft was the only person in his corner, though it now looked to be over as well. He huffed a breathy laugh and closed his eyes, pressing thumb and pointer to the bridge of his nose. "He's really worried about you, you know? Why are you digging at him?"

"Mycroft's being abused." Sherlock said, voice quiet, almost too quiet to be understood.

John's head snapped up at that. " _What_?" The very idea of anyone at all controlling Mycroft was absurd. "Sherlock, what the hell are you on about? He's- _what_?"

"My brother is being abused." Sherlock stated, voice flat. "He had a boyfriend, during University. If I'm correct, he's insinuated himself into Mycroft's life again and has his claws sunk deep. But I need time, I need out of the hospital... and I need us together at Christmas."

John looked to Sherlock and held quiet for several long minutes. Mycroft had been rough, but he'd seemed alright. "I don't know if you should get involved in whatever is going on with him in regards to a relationship, Sherlock. He's… Mycroft isn't the sort to let someone hurt him. It's not as though he hasn't got protection."

Sherlock struggled then. John had too much on him. Things were too bad on him already. He made the decision not to tell John just who the boyfriend had been. The breath was let out slowly. "You're right, you are. I- as much as it pains me to admit it- worry about him."

John knew as much, but it was interesting to hear Sherlock say so. "Well, it's a lot of years since uni," he replied, looking at Sherlock again before turning his eyes away, "he might ah, have a relationship that requires… rougher handling. I think you should let it lie." 

Sherlock hummed at that. "Well aware of my brother's predilection for submission, John. Though I'd shelved it quite far down in my brain until recently. It doesn't matter. He's got protection as you say. I should concentrate on getting better."

John nodded, not very optimistic about this. If they had Sherlock in damn restraints, then they'd deemed him a danger. That was not a condition John could help him AMA out of. "Yeah let's hear what he has to say about it."

Mark came back in and rubbed the back of his neck. "Two more nights. Regular room, heart and lungs monitored. Let therapy come by and do an assessment, see if anything at home needs to be changed. Yeah?"

Sherlock looked over to John. "That sounds fair to me. John? Two more nights? Just tonight and tomorrow night..."

John nodded without causing any sort of fuss. Whatever. It was two more nights, what harm would it do? "Yeah, fine," he said quietly. Moving was going to be a complete pain in the arse, "can't we just stay here? Moving is such a hassle." 

"Ah- well, yeah. We don't need the room, have several open. I thought you two might want somewhere else, but staying here is fine. It's okay. Well, I'll be back in the morning. Sherlock I'd like to leave those tubes in until then, please. Rather not replace them before then. Alright?" Mark was flabbergasted by the change in them both.

Sherlock nodded. "Yes, fine, can I get this bloody contraption off my head?"

Mark scrubbed a hand over his face. "In the morning, everything in the morning, Sherlock... You didn't- You did not wake back up last time. Okay?"

John cracked an empty laugh at that. Wonderful. He'd put it out of his mind that Sherlock was going to go back to sleep at some point. He inhaled deeply and scrubbed a hand over his neck, exhausted and wanting to simply _stop_. 

"In the morning," he agreed with Mark, fear beginning to whisper along the back of his mind. 

Sherlock waved a hand dismissively. "I am starving. I will be fine. Please let me have some food."

Mark sighed. "I'll put in an order for some. You two- please get some rest and don't tear the hospital apart tonight, _please_." He slipped out of the room again, leaving them on their own.

John twisted his hands nervously in his lap without any self-awareness, staring off at the door where Mark left. It was slightly encouraging that Sherlock wanted to eat. Perhaps he was truly out of the thick of it. He'd not been this lucid and steady the last time he got up. He tucked a thumbnail between his teeth, sliding into his mind without intending to, still and silent. 

Sherlock allowed John his downtime. He was not going to jolt the man about. A nurse came bearing a tray soon after with a sandwich, fruit, and juice. She advised him to go slow before she, too, disappeared out of the room.

Sherlock took the advice to heart and made slow, steady work of the tray he'd been brought as he put his mind to Mycroft, John, and Mary. All problems led back to one man.

When Sherlock was done eating, John's quiet voice broke the silence. He hardly allowed himself to speak above a whisper. "I'm scared for you to go back sleep," he confessed, in no other way moving his body. The words caught up in his throat, making his eyes sting. 

The tray was pushed away as Sherlock looked up to John. “I know you are, but I promise I’m okay. I am. It’s over. I fought my way out last time. I was able to walk out this time.”

John nodded as he stared at the blurring lines of his lap. "You were just busy… so you didn't..." he cleared his throat, wrapping his arms around himself as he leaned back in his chair as he'd taken to doing when self comforting over the last few days. "You're okay," he whispered, nodding to himself again, trying to cement the words in his mind. Sherlock was okay. He was fine. 

Sherlock sighed softly. "I miss Baker Street. I miss you. I miss cases and running and-" He shook his head and closed his eyes. There was so much that he missed. So very much.

"I'm sorry," John whispered back, guilt trickling down his spine and twisting in his gut. Sherlock would have all of those things were it not for him. "I'm trying to make it right. I'm sorry."

"John, don't do that to yourself, please. Please don't." Sherlock reached out for his hand. "We'll get back there, somehow, we'll get back there."

John was drawn in on himself in a way that he was unable to see Sherlock reaching for him. He gave Sherlock a bit of a nod in response to him requesting John not go down that road, though he'd traveled it so many times it was like an old friend. He pulled in tighter on himself as the old whisper of panic began to demand his attention. Sherlock was going to be tired soon, and then he'd sleep, and then John faced days on end of anxious waiting alone. 

Sherlock let his hand go to the bed. A soft sigh escaped him and he closed his eyes. "You need rest, John. Rest and I'll stay up a while and watch over you. Alright?"

John finally turned to look at Sherlock. "Watch over me? I'm fine. You're the one in ICU, mate. If you are tired, sleep. No sense putting it off and you need rest. I'm ok, I'm just… I'm okay." 

Sherlock nodded at that. He opened his mouth to say something and hesitated for a moment. "Well, alright. Okay. I'll- I'm going to rest. I'll see you in the morning. Okay?"

John nodded. "See you in the morning, Sherlock," he whispered in return, fear twisting his heart and making his voice a bit too strained. He was actively fighting against begging Sherlock to keep awake, but he wouldn't do. That was stupid and pointless, and the man absolutely needed rest.

Sherlock curled to his side, closing his eyes. He pulled the covers up to his shoulder. "Goodnight, John." The detective felt brittle. Everything was cracking apart around him because of Charles Augustus Magnessun. Sherlock let himself slip into sleep, his mind blissfully quiet.

John got up an hour later, starting to pace the room. He wanted to reach out and shake the man awake just to see if he could. In the quiet privacy of the dark room, John silently allowed tears to slide down his face, giving vent to fear. His stomach growled at him, making him sick instead of hungry, and he nearly gagged at the feel of it. 

He remained like that for another hour, pacing and soaking in terrible anxiety, before finally dragging his hands down his face and walking over to Sherlock's side. He sat down in his chair and reached for him with trembling hands. "Sherlock?" he called out, sick with worry as he closed his hand over Sherlock's shoulder. "Hey, Sherlock?"

Sherlock startled awake. "John? John, what is it? What's wrong?" The voice was heavy with sleep, but clear and concise. "Come here?" The long arms opened. "Please?"

John's knees nearly gave and he gratefully put a hip on Sherlock's bed, easing down as relief poured down over him. He was careful as he moved to the space at Sherlock's side, curling up with his head in the pocket of Sherlock's shoulder. His breathing was wrecked as air shattered in and out of his lungs. He curled his fingers in Sherlock's gown, right over his heart, and closed his eyes as he swallowed back the nausea, trying to settle himself down. 

Sherlock wrapped up around John, holding him close. "I'm okay. I am okay, I promise." His words were whispered, soft. "It's alright."

John nodded against Sherlock's chest and tried to relax. "I'm sorry I woke you," his words were thick as he tightened his hold on Sherlock's gown.

"No, it's alright. I understand." Sherlock answered, nuzzling down into John's hair. "Stay here, just stay here and rest with me, okay?"

John was already falling asleep, finally set somewhat at ease in the knowledge that Sherlock had both wanted to eat and then been rousable after several hours of sleep. It took less than five minutes for his breathing to steady out and his muscles to relax, finally allowing him sleep.

Sherlock waited for John to fall asleep before pressing a gentle kiss to the top of his head. His eyes dropped closed and he held John against him before letting himself slide back to sleep.


	21. Chapter 21

"Come on, Sherlock, come on," Mark whispered as he he began to rub Sherlock's chest, attempting to get his attention without waking John. They had both slept through morning rounds and Mark had been loath to wake them. It was now half ten and he could no longer stave off the worry that Sherlock had slipped away from them again. He'd been trying for five minutes now to rouse Sherlock, who had thus far failed to react in any way. 

Sherlock made a face and slowly cracked one eye open. He looked up at Mark in question. The detective was still partially wrapped around John and he whispered, "I'm fine, just sleeping well. Let's not wake him? He woke me last night, near frantic..."

Mark closed his eyes for a brief moment in relief. He nodded, looking over to John, who looked the phrase _sleeping like the dead_. Mark moved away from Sherlock with a gentle pat to his shoulder and turned the blinds to help block more of the light out. "I'll be back in two hours. If you're up for it, we need to get food in him today. He's decided he's not going to listen to me, might listen to you." 

Sherlock nodded. "Might eat with me. Mark, thank you... Sorry I went all-" He waved a hand in a gentle way. "Yesterday, you know?" An apology was a rare thing from Sherlock, but Mark had been getting it from all sides and Sherlock knew it.

Mark cracked a smile at him and shook his head. "Don't worry about it. I mean, thanks, and let's not again, but I get it. You two..." he just left it at that. "Sleep, I'll come see you in a few hours." 

Mark didn't have to say anything else. 

Sherlock knew he and John were dependant on one another in dangerous ways. He looked at John, sleeping there in his arms. _Nothing to be done about it right now. You’ve been this way with one another since the beginning._

Sherlock curled back up around John and drifted back off with ease. Actual sleep without Jim buzzing around in his head was a welcome thing.

A trauma call had Mark away for three more hours. When he was able to make his way back, he had two bags of food in hand from the little cafe across the street. Proper tea in lidded paper cups, fluffy eggs, and crumpets, as well as two small cups of fruit. 

John was still down hard, not so much as twitching as he lay molded to Sherlock's side, an arm slung across his chest possessively. Mark called out to Sherlock in a gentle tone as he set the food down, hoping to get a response once again.

Sherlock opened his eyes. He breathed in the scent of tea and proper food. A little moan escaped him before he could help himself. The detective smiled as he tipped his head back to John. He pressed a soft kiss to John's head. John looked so peaceful he was really loath to wake him.

Mark looked down at John and back to Sherlock. "Alright, I'm going to step out, I seem to stress him out now, not entirely sure why. Call if you need me." 

Sherlock nodded. "Thank you. I'll call when I'm done, see about these wires and tubes?" He was tenderly stroking John's back, wanting to ease him awake in slow increments.

Mark nodded, agreeing to Sherlock's request and then moving out the door when John began to stir. 

John shifted under Sherlock's hand, shifting closer to Sherlock, tightening his grip on the man. He pressed his face to Sherlock's chest, shaking his head, not at all wanting to wake up and face the day. "C-Can you wake him," he whispered, confused in his half-sleep state, expecting Mark as usual.

Sherlock hummed warmly. "Well, seeing as I'm already awake, might be hard to wake myself again." His voice was low, warm as he continued to stroke John's back. "We have a real, proper, outside food breakfast and cuppas waiting on us. Take your time coming up though. There's no rush whatsoever. Just you and I having a meal together." The detective kept everything light and gentle. "Though I still look a fright with wires coming out of my head."

John's eyes flew open and he pushed up, looking over at Sherlock, blinking the sleep from his eyes. His focus jumped over Sherlock's features, taking him in as if he did not quite believe it. "You… you're awake," his voice was quiet, swiftly putting his head back down on Sherlock's shoulder, pressing his face to the side of Sherlock's neck and breathing deep. He'd not particularly believed that Sherlock would be there in the morning. "I can't believe you're awake." 

Sherlock tilted his head against John's. "I'm awake. Been awake once before too. Let you sleep though." He nuzzled down against John's hair, just holding him. "I've got you."

John stayed just as he was, holding tight to Sherlock, breathing as slow and deep as he could make himself. Feeling Sherlock's muscle tension below him, physical reminders that Sherlock was still awake, all helped ease the horrific tension he'd been carrying around for the last two weeks. He shuffled closer still, dropping a bent knee over Sherlock's thigh, fingers tight in Sherlock's gown. 

Sherlock kissed the top of John's head, unable to keep himself from deepening the affection. Everything had been so hellish on them. His hands worked circles along John's back, trying to soothe him down. He hummed the violin piece that always soothed John.

A half hour slid by with John wrapped tight around Sherlock, breathing through the burn of tears, struggling to keep himself calm. The relief was so overwhelming that it threatened to push past his composure and take him down, stress demanding release. He allowed Sherlock to comfort him, stilling his mind and attempting to stay present. 

Finally he pulled away from Sherlock, clearing his throat and scrubbing a hand over his face. "I'm sorry. Just stressed. Why don't I go get something for you to eat?" His damn hands refused to stop shaking, but otherwise he was mostly collected.

Sherlock hummed low. "Mark brought us breakfast from outside hospital. But if you need to go for a walk to clear your head. I can understand. If not, just pull that over here and we'll eat. Mark's going to take me off these stupid wires and tubes. I'll be checked out by therapy... and with a bit of luck, we'll be back in Baker Street tomorrow afternoon."

John looked over at the food and relaxed, glad it had already been delivered. He pulled the tray over and tucked himself in next to Sherlock, intent on eating when his gut twisted and he felt a renewed shock of fear and loss. He ignored the food as he suddenly leaned in and again pressed his face to the side of Sherlock's neck, breathing deep as he steadied himself. 

Seconds later, at complete surprise to himself, John was in tears. He reached over, gently wrapping his fingers in Sherlock's gown over his heart, quiet as he fell apart. "I'm sorry," he breathed, shocked with his own behavior. He pressed closer to Sherlock's side, all but molding to the shape of him, feeling the threat of cold, bitter _alone_ at his back. 

Sherlock wrapped one arm around John and tipped his head to him. "John," His voice was a low rumble of reassurance. "This has been hell on you. Absolute and utter hell. I realize that." The lanky detective took a sip of nearly cold tea and wrinkled his nose but sipped again anyhow, grateful for the proper tea despite its temperature. "This is not unexpected and you do not have to apologize. Rest here, tucked close as long as you need to. Talk, or don't talk. Whatever you need."

John kept just as he was, appetite gone, holding on to Sherlock. He'd had strength when he woke, but it was all but gone now, leaving him wrung out and feeling incredibly weak. Weeks back in hospital with Sherlock and John was falling apart. Had he the energy, he'd have been disgusted with himself. For the moment, he put a pin in the disappointment and just lay there, eyes closed and lashes heavy. He only made it another ten minutes before sleep dragged him right back down, resting heavy against Sherlock's shoulder. 

Sherlock ate in the silence that followed, holding John with one arm. The man just wanted back to Baker Street. It was time to plan what needed to be done. Four people, one of them unborn, were counting on him, whether they realized it or not. The dark haired man slid into his mind palace, keeping the doors open so he would be easily pulled out as he started planning how to take down Charles Augustus Magnussen. 

Mark returned an hour after he'd left the food, finding the pair of them resting. Sherlock had eaten, and he noted it in the chart before cleaning up and shaking his head at John's helping. He debated calling Molly Hooper, who'd been such a help to John the last time, but surely they'd be going home in a day and John would properly rest, and it would all be fine. Surely. Sherlock had been up several times now and Mark was optimistic that things would carry on improving. 

While Sherlock was resting, Mark carefully took to removing the EEG, conscious not to pull at his hair or overly shift him. He'd pull the NG tube when Sherlock was awake, leaving him with the catheter and drip line until discharge. 

He quietly left, sending a text to Mycroft to keep him abreast of the situation. 

_It looks as though your brother will be able to go home tomorrow. Easily woken today, lucid and eating._

Mycroft responded a few minutes later.

_This is welcome news._

Sherlock came out of his mind palace, mind settled, plan drawn up. He would need to contact Billy, but there was time enough to settle everything. He was able to wiggle around to snag the tablet and soon his plans were in motion. Mycroft would have no choice but to attend Christmas dinner, Mary wouldn't refuse, and his parents would be absolutely delighted.

A calm settled over Sherlock as he faced what he'd planned. No one threatened his family.

The nursing staff let Mark know that Sherlock had woken, and within the hour he returned, finding Sherlock with a tablet on his lap and John still dropped out hard. 

"You seem… calm," Mark whispered with a gentle smile, honestly glad to see Sherlock anywhere close to settled. He tapped his own nose and pointed to Sherlock, "Want that out?" 

Sherlock looked up to Mark and nodded. "Thank you for the other." He waved his hand around his head. "Felt a bit like Frankenstein's monster. Nose would be good to have back fully. Ready to be home. I'm feeling better than I have since I got shot, if we're being honest. Needed a reset."

The tall, brooding detective was back in force. Gone was the over emotional man Sherlock had become over the past few months, his brain acutely turned to solving a problem and shuttering everything else away. The care for the four was still there, the driving force behind his concentration.

Mark nodded, quietly setting about gathering up what he needed to pull the tube. "Not going to sick up on John, yeah? Or we need to shift him." He had a small basin for Sherlock, hands gloved, ready to swiftly remove the feeding tube. John was so deeply asleep that he was faintly snoring, something Mark had noticed only when John was pushed to the limit. He doubted John would wake if they moved him slightly. 

Sherlock shook his head. "No, I will be fine. Small amount of gagging I think." He kept a hand on John, unwilling to let him go at the moment.

Mark figured as much, gentle and quiet as he prepped the tube for extraction. He counted to three for Sherlock before deftly pulling the thing, pressing a damp cloth over Sherlock's nose as he gagged over the basin. "Slow breaths," he whispered, tossing the tube, sticking right to Sherlock's side and watching his heart rate. 

Sherlock loathed that feeling and fought to breath slow and deep. After a few moments his body calmed again, allowing him to sit back and relax on the bed. "Thank you," he managed after another moment of rest. "Will be glad to return home. You've gone above and beyond, Mark, consistently. I cannot express enough, my gratitude for it."

Mark turned around as he dried his hands, looking at Sherlock for a minute. For the first time since meeting him, he could finally see the familial relation to Mycroft Holmes outside of the razor sharp intelligence. Sherlock was composed, lucid, rational. The anger was gone, as was the undercurrent of fear and desperation. He was the same man, though nothing like the Sherlock he'd come to know. Mark smiled gently at him, nodding once, "Of course," he replied with a whisper, looking to John for a moment before returning his focus to Sherlock. He finally, _finally_ felt as though he'd done his primary patient a bit of good. Likely _this_ was the Sherlock all the people who'd rallied around him knew. 

Sherlock looked better than he had since he'd been shot as well. The man was still in a hospital gown and had an IV but his color had come back, his skin looked better, and his overall composure was back. His voice was quiet. "Is there any way I could take a shower? I realize there isn't one in here but, ah, perhaps I could sneak one in a lounge somewhere?"

Mark smiled broadly at him. That was a good sign indeed. "Of course, let's ah, let's get that catheter out and get you on your feet." If Sherlock wanted to shower, he could handle getting up for the lav as needed. Mark again gathered the supplies he needed and, using the blanket tactically for privacy, made swift work of the uncomfortable removal of that as well. One more hand wash and a new set of gloves, and Mark had Sherlock completely untreated, capping off his IV port and setting a comfortable pair of dressing shoes down at the side of Sherlock's bed. 

"You've got to let me walk with you," Mark warned, not ready to allow Sherlock time on his own yet, worried that he might fall. John, shockingly, slept through all of the activity. Mark had known him to be an incredibly light sleeper, it was odd for him to stay down. "Come on, you can use the lav in the lounge. Everything is already in there save razors. I'll get you one." He offered his hand, waiting for Sherlock. 

Sherlock nodded but quickly scrawled a note for John both on the whiteboard in the room and one on his pillow. _Gone to shower, don't panic, rest. SH_

The man pointed to a garment bag in the corner. Of course Mycroft had sent a suit. A smile crossed his lips in a fleeting manner. "Ah, clothing. As much as I appreciate the stunning fashion of the hospital gowns. I think I'll take that." Sherlock moved slowly though, letting his body adjust to being back up and allowing Mark to handle him. 

Mark looked to the suit and then back to Sherlock. "The suit?" He had no idea what Sherlock thought he was going to do in that, but grabbed the bag anyhow. 

He led Sherlock down to the showers and hung the bag, "I'll be back with a razor, yeah? Enjoy your shower, I'm going to wait for you in the lounge." He popped away and fetched up a razor and toiletries for him, leaving the kit just on the counter and going back to sit down on the sofa, waiting for Sherlock to be done with his washing up. 

Sherlock took his time. Lamenting how long his hair had grown. Nothing for it at the moment. He was meticulous in his grooming as he washed away days worth of hospital dirt and grime. It took him the equivalent of three showers worth of soap and attention to finally feel clean and 'human' again. 

The detective took great care in shaving and cleaning his mouth before he was able to dress. The whole routine had been exhausting, something that irritated him to no end. When Sherlock emerged from the room, the scent of soap and shaving cream wafting after him, he was dressed in a black suit with a blue shirt underneath. He studiously adjusted his cuffs and looked to Mark. "Allow me to introduce myself. Sherlock Holmes." There was a smile and a wink to Mark.

"Ah," Mark said with a smile, standing up and looking him over. Only now did their height difference show. Mark was taller than John, but Sherlock had a bit on him. He could see where Sherlock was still quite tired, and it was a bit odd to see the port in Sherlock's hand when he looked ready to walk out of hospital, but he was assembled and looking better than Mark had ever seen him. "There's the Holmes in you. I see it now. You look much better, but you're tired. John has a comfortable chair in your room, and I'll have the staff change out your bedding when John wakes up."

John, however, was already up, the bed stripped down and the bedding piled on the floor, pacing along the short wall near the window. After half an hour he gave up walking, hands shaking hard, simply resting his shoulder against the windowsill and staring out, Sherlock's note clutched to a crumpled mess in his hand, head pounding, eyes gritty with exhaustion, red-rimmed with stress. 

Sherlock's smirk was a ghost on his face. He nodded. "Put out that I am as tired as I am, but it's to be expected. Glad to be up and about though." He allowed Mark to take his arm, fully unwilling to fall after having come so far.

Mark helped Sherlock down the hall, moving slower than before but pleased to see him keeping up. He stopped at Sherlock's door and noticed John by the window, having to call his name twice before the man visibly jumped and turned around. 

John's heart was racing from being startled so, and he looked to Mark in question before he looked over at Sherlock, mouth snapping shut, taking in the state of him. He blinked twice, hand subconsciously going to his own heavily stubbled chin. "You… look better," he said quietly, giving Sherlock something of a smile without meeting his eye.

Sherlock hummed and moved to John, choosing each step in a conscious manner. "I think I left _some_ hot water in the hospital." He reached up and touched John's near beard. "Still better than that moustache." His hand dropped back down. "I feel better. I'll be much better off once we get home tomorrow. Thought a change of attire for me might do us all some good."

John nodded, looking up at Sherlock. "Home. Yeah," he said quietly, reaching out and running his finger under the lapel of Sherlock's suit and shaking his head. Christ, he wanted to go home. He was tempted to ask Mark if they could just leave, but the energy getting home would require seemed daunting. 

"Should sit down, you've been on your feet a long time." He nodded to 'his' chair as the bed was stripped and waiting for new sheets. He shoved the note in his pocket and swept his eyes over Sherlock, drinking in the sight of him back in his typical attire.

Sherlock did not argue as he moved to the chair. Though his hand trailed along John's hip in a tender touch before he sank down into the chair. "It took longer than I calculated it would to get clean. I had hoped you would rest through it. Strength and the amount of grime worked against me."

John watched as Sherlock took his seat, shaking his head. "You left me a note. I slept though a lot, apparently." 

Mark slipped away to get housekeeping to come change the bedding, leaving the men to talk. John dragged over a regular chair and sat down, looking Sherlock over. "You okay?" he asked quietly, worried over Sherlock's swiftly flagging energy.

"It was a very long shower followed by shaving. I am feeling very well, just tired. I would tell you if anything else were going on. Not even really in any pain to speak of. There is some discomfort here and there. But no true pain." Sherlock took in John's appearance. "Baker Street and lounging about in my pyjamas and dressing gown tomorrow. Chinese to celebrate?"

For just a fraction of second, John's expression crumpled as though he were about to cry. He cleared his throat and nodded, resting a finger against his lips to cover the moment of weakness. God, it sounded too good to be true. He just wanted to go home and crack a bottle and drink until he forgot _everything_. As he was highly unlikely to do so, second best was lounging and telly, safe with Sherlock at _home_. 

"Yeah, sounds-" his voice cracked and he shook his head, swallowing and carrying on, "good. Yeah." 

Sherlock reached out and curled a hand around John's. He squeezed as they sat there. Silence settled over the room and Sherlock's thumb stroked over John's hand as he watched him. Christmas would come and Sherlock would settle all of this.

John ended up dead asleep, slumped uncomfortably in the chair not twenty minutes later. Housekeeping was quiet as they gathered the stripped bedding and remade Sherlock's bed. 

Mark returned with Sherlock's medication, wanting to dose him himself. He quietly slipped past John and held up a few syringes so that Sherlock would understand, crouching at Sherlock's side and slowly pushing antibiotics and his painkiller. "Can I do anything else for you? Lunch is over, but it's near dinnertime anyhow. They'll bring you a tray. Get through tonight, go home tomorrow. I can't imagine you'll have a problem."

Sherlock looked at John and nodded. "He can't sleep like that. It's going to kill him. Help me see if we can't get him into the chair? And I'll sit on the bed. After dinner I'll put on some pyjamas. I'm rather fond of being in the suit at the moment. It's been far too long."

Mark helped Sherlock get up on the bed, raising the back to where he could comfortably sit and handing him his tablet. He moved over to John then, crouching in front of him. "John," he called gently, wrapping a hand over John's wrist and nearly letting go when John snapped awake, staring at Mark for a few seconds before his expression crumpled and he dropped his head in his hands, his breathing wrecked. 

Mark stared at him in confusion for a moment before realizing what was going on. "No, John he's fine, aren't you Sherlock?"

"John, I'm fine. Would you like to settle in your chair? Or would you rather come up here with me? I can lean back more and read. I was just going to read. Come up here." Sherlock patted the bed before moving the head back down to a comfortable reclining position. "I've had some painkiller, so it's likely I'll fall asleep for a short nap anyhow. Why don't you come back up here?"

John's stomach rolled hard in the swift crash of bitter fear and intense relief, leaving him pale and shaking. He pushed past Mark, whispering an automatic apology as he brushed beside the man, crawling up beside Sherlock and carefully lying down, not wanting to upset Sherlock's suit, arms wrapped tight around himself as he lay there shivering. Snapping awake always managed to do that to him, and with the intense wash of emotion, he looked as though he'd just come in from the cold. He did not dare try and speak, simply closing his eyes and trying to breathe through the rolling sickness.

Sherlock shifted and curled John to him. "Come here, tuck close. I have you, John. I have you." Long fingers carded through John's hair as they lay there in the bed. He looked up to Mark and nodded in thanks. "Slow, deep breaths with me." He gave count as they laid there and attempted to soothe John back down. Voice low and even as he reassured him.

Feeling like a fantastic idiot, John followed Sherlock's instructions, breathing with him and managing to drop out asleep in under five minutes. Months on end of too little sleep and too much stress were finally pushing him past his limits and his body was no longer giving him a choice. Sherlock was dressed and cared for, doing well, and it was presumably safe for John to sleep. 

Sherlock read his book on the tablet, more than happy to hold John. He stroked the blonde hair on John's head idly the entire time, only slowing and then stopping when he fell asleep with the tablet on his chest. A tray was dropped off silently for him and Sherlock slept on. 

A nurse came by and cleared away the tray an hour later. She left him a note just to call for a sandwich. The only thing anyone did was clip a pulse and oxygen monitor to his finger while he slept, John curled in his arms, tablet set aside by the same gentle nurse.

John came awake sometime in the night, his bladder demanding attention. He groaned and rubbed at his eyes, slowly sitting up. In a daze he dragged himself to the lav, walking back to Sherlock and getting ready to climb into the bed before realizing that Sherlock was still in his suit. 

"Sherlock," he called out gently, rubbing at his eyes, "hey, Sherlock."

Sherlock opened his eyes and stretched slightly. He hummed as he looked over to John. "Mm? What's wrong?" His eyes opened wide a couple of times as he attempted to shake himself the rest of the way awake. "Ugh, suit, need toilet. Pyjamas?"

John nodded, groggy as he staggered over to Sherlock's bag and grabbed out night clothes. He handed them over and waited by the door to walk Sherlock down the hall.

Sherlock didn't lean on John, but he did stick close as they made their way down the hall. The nurse watched, silencing the alarm from his suddenly non-beating heart on the monitor. '

"Won't lock it, just in case." Sherlock murmured before he disappeared behind the door with his pyjamas. It took nearly ten minutes, with Sherlock occasionally giving an oath as his tired, fumbling movements made things difficult. Soon enough though Sherlock emerged dressed for bed and clinging to his suit

John helped him back, taking the suit from him and draping it over his shoulder so that his hands were free. Sherlock was pale and much slower than he had been before, making John slightly concerned. He got them back to Sherlock's bed, draping the suit over a chair and helping Sherlock to get in.

Sherlock's hand shook and it took him a moment to realize what was going on. "John, will you call for a sandwich for me? My body is rather used to regular feedings again. Tedious. I slept through lunch and then through dinner." The bed was comfortable enough. "Then back to bed with you." He patted the sheet beside him.

John frowned at Sherlock's declining state and walked out of the room, quietly asking the nurses for food. He returned ten minutes later with a sandwich and some cheese, along with a small orange juice, setting it all beside Sherlock on his tray. "Try to eat all of it, yeah?" He whispered, walking around the side of the bed and sitting down slowly. 

Sherlock went after the juice first, drinking it all before he paid any attention to the rest in an attempt to stabilize his blood sugar. The cheese went next, Sherlock slightly disgusted with just how very hungry he was. He hummed as he was able to slow down with the sandwich, eating it slower as his body took in the energy it needed and calmed back down.

John ended up dropping off before Sherlock finished his meal, unable to keep himself awake. He was curled on his side, hand on Sherlock's hip, quietly drifting asleep without intending to.

Sherlock pushed the tray away when he was done and affixed the monitor to his finger once more. Soon he was wrapped up around John, face buried down into his hair. His arm was slung over John’s side in a possessive, protective gesture. Sherlock was asleep almost as soon as he’d settled himself against John.

Mark walked into Sherlock's room after morning rounds, fresh and ready to go. He smiled at the men wrapped up together, marveling that the were not a formal couple, that one of them was bloody well _married_ to someone else. The entire situation seemed impossible. 

He walked over to Sherlock's side of the bed and smiled down at the man, pleased that he'd eaten a proper meal and gone back to bed. "Morning, gentlemen."

Sherlock grumbled low against John's head. "John. He means to wake us. Shoot him." The detective cracked one eye open. "Only in the leg or something non-fatal, he's too valuable to get rid of."

John shifted awake reluctantly, cricks in his neck and a throbbing head, but Sherlock was miraculously still awake and they were going to go _home_. 

He sat up slowly, pressing his hand to his head. "Tell me you already have the-" 

Mark cut him off, waving a bit of paperwork, "Sign and leave, I had it all set up yesterday. Mycroft sent a car, it's waiting. Rapture and joy, get out of my hospital. Therapy cleared him to go back to the PT he was on before he came back," he spoke with a grin as he walked over to Sherlock. Mark pulled the port from his hand in a series of quick movements before slapping a plaster over it and winking. "Sign, pack, sit your arse in a chair and go feed John for God's sake." 

Sherlock let a genuine and grateful smile flit across his lips. "All his favorite foods... starting with Mrs. Hudson's biscuits most likely. I don't invite people over, but I'm sure, after Christmas, Mrs. Hudson and John would appreciate if you came over for tea sometime."

He looked over to John after he signed the paperwork. All he wanted to do was go home and settle into some semblance of normal until Christmas. Then he'd correct all their current problems.

\---

The trip back took it out of the pair of them. John was near sick by the time he and Sherlock made it up the stairs, their bags carried and dropped off by one of Mycroft's men. John texted Mark to let him know they'd made it, while Mrs. Hudson fussed about with Sherlock. The woman had decorated up Baker Street to the best of her ability, sending a pang of loss through John's chest. 

This would have been he and Mary's first Christmas together as a married couple. Instead he was ready to fall over from exhaustion, months into nursing his best friend back to health from her actions, hardly a care about the holidays at all. He was in a sweat by the time he was done situating them. He hugged Mrs. Hudson and sent her off, all but collapsing on the sofa next to Sherlock, as he turned a faint shade of green.

Sherlock took him in, the faint tint to his skin and wrapped an arm around him. “I think, maybe when we can move again, a nap is in order. We can sort things tomorrow. For now, we are home. I am well, albeit in need of rest. You need rest and then something to eat.”

John nodded as he pressed a hand over his eyes, swallowing and slowly exhaling. "Sorry, you're the one just out of hospital," he whispered, swallowing again as the act of speech made him ill. He leaned into Sherlock and tried to just relax, vastly overwhelmed. "'s nearly Christmas." 

Sherlock tucked against John. "Yes it is. Afraid I've quite refused to go to the shops this year. I've gotten you nothing." As though Sherlock remembered Christmas at the best of times... "Though I might be talked into making you a cup of spearmint tea to settle and soothe you if you'd like."

John shook his head, leaned up hard against Sherlock. "No," he whispered, not at all interested in putting a single thing in his mouth, "you don't need to make me anything. I'm just glad you're home."

Sherlock tipped his head to John's as they sat there, his eyes drooping in the aftermath of getting home. "Then let's just have a rest here on the sofa. I'm happy to be home."

John and Sherlock spent the rest of the day dozing on the sofa, occasionally flipping on the telly, mostly quiet with one another. Mrs. Hudson managed to get food down John that evening, feeding him soup and demanding that he eat. 

When they went to bed that evening, John slept hard for the next fourteen hours. The sun was well up by the time he puttered out to the sitting room, seeking out Sherlock. 

Sherlock looked up from where he was plucking idly at his violin. The instrument was set aside and Sherlock pushed to his feet, a hand brushing John's hip as he moved by. "I'll put the kettle on. How did you rest?" 

He knew John had been down hard; the man had almost not moved at all. Sherlock suspected he would be stiff. "Paracetamol?"

John nodded as he dragged a hand through his hair, catching Sherlock's fingers and giving them a brief squeeze. "Yeah that… please." He moved over and sat down in his chair, staring blurrily across the room. The sleep had helped, but he was wrecked from it, struggling to wake up when all he wanted to do was lie back down again. 

He couldn't do that though. He and Sherlock had to talk, and John wanted the conversation had and done with. 

Sherlock nodded as he went through the motions with the tea. Soon two steaming mugs were on a small tray and toast spread with John's favorite jam was beside them. The paracetamol was put in a little bowl and settled along with it. 

He moved into the room with more ease than he had the day before. Sherlock set the tray down on John's table and picked his own mug up before sitting down across from John. "When you feel like it, speak. You've obviously got something on your mind." 

Sherlock had spent the morning making sure the arrangements were made for Christmas while John slept.

John gave himself a few minutes to sip at his tea and swallow the tablets. His stomach was too twisted up to eat at the moment, needing to gauge Sherlock's reaction to what he was going to say first. He set the tea aside and laced his fingers between his knees, leaning forward. He opened his mouth to speak, only to shut it again, dragging a hand over his face. He looked down at the floor between his knees, closed his eyes, and spoke. 

"She's my wife," he whispered quietly, nauseated, "she's carrying my child. I think I love her. I've made promises I can't just back out on. I- I have to try. I have to try, Sherlock."

Sherlock steepled his fingers under his chin as he watched John and smiled. It was a true, genuine smile, the one he only ever showed John. "I know. I have never expected you to leave her for me or anything of that nature. The two of you are twined together. I don't begrudge you that at all."

He took a sip of his tea as he watched John, careful in his observation of John's reactions before he spoke again. "That doesn't change how I feel about you or the fact that Baker Street will always be your home when it is needed."

John kept his eyes to the floor, his heart seemingly trying to beat itself out of his ribs. He closed his eyes and dragged a hand over his face again, ears buzzing. Each and every time he thought of walking away from Mary, of telling her he wasn't in love, that he was done… each time he considered sitting down and working out visitation arrangements and housing, support payments and… he exhaled a trembling breath and swallowed hard. He loved her. He loved her and she was going to hurt him again and he was a damned fool, but god help him he loved her. 

On the flip side of that coin was the idea of walking out of Baker Street, leaving Sherlock to settle on his own, night terrors and boredom closing in on the man with no one to keep him centered. He thought of climbing into bed with his wife, and the ache that would come with finding her at his side and not Sherlock. He huffed an empty, hopeless laugh and closed his eyes, hands shaking, acid at the back of his throat. He'd been so damned _bored_. They'd lived together all of a month before he was climbing the walls. 

Sherlock had hit the needle. John hit a junkie. Mary pulled a trigger. 

Christ. 

"I'm not done," he whispered, forcing himself to flick his eyes up to Sherlock before looking back down, head pounding and heart twisted up in knots. "I can't… I can't leave you either. I can't. God help me this will sound daft and selfish, but I want it anyhow. If you can stand it, I want you to live with us. She can move here, or you there, but I can't-" he cleared his throat, face freezing as he reacted to the stress of his very limited choices, "I can't."

Sherlock’s mouth quirked up in the corner. “Baker Street is entirely too small for three adults and a child. Don’t be ridiculous, John.” 

When John looked up at him Sherlock pressed on. “But it is the perfect place to continue conducting business, catch naps, do experiments where they won’t be a threat to your child, compose music, compose myself when I need a moment alone…”

He watched John. “I would be willing to sleep at your house, to partially move in there. Leave my costumery and things of that nature here. The skull stays. We’ll get the baby one of its own.”

The relief in the air around Sherlock was a palpable thing. He'd done a good job of covering up the terror that had lanced through him. Sherlock had given John up once to Mary. He hadn't been sure he had it in him again.

John looked back up to Sherlock then, honestly surprised to hear such a reaction. He'd been ready for...hell a myriad of replies, but this was more than he'd thought possible. "You..." he swallowed as relief crashed with the tension he'd been carrying, closing his eyes again as his vision blurred. It was going to be messy, and they were going to catch so much hell about it, and John didn't give a damn. He didn't. Fuck the lot of them his life was always chaos and so long as Sherlock was in it, he could move forward. 

"No experimenting on the baby," he whispered tightly, a slight uptick to the corner of his lips as he said as much. His hands were shaking terribly and he felt close to faint, but it would be alright. Mary had already said that she'd not ask him to give Sherlock up. He had no idea how the relationships in the house would work, but Jesus, _Jesus_ it was a relief to know he wasn't going to have to leave them.

Sherlock made a face. "Of course I'm going to experiment on the baby... only- safe things like trying to teach it to read as young as I did. Nothing dangerous. I'm not an animal." He watched John and then cleared his throat. "It's going to be hard... it's going to be- well it's going to be hell to settle into. People won't understand if we tell them. I am more than willing to play the part of the healing man and doting uncle. People will still talk, but they've talked about us for years anyhow."

He shrugged as he spoke. "I don't care what anyone says."

Doubt crept in as Sherlock spoke. Perhaps the idea was too optimistic, too much to ask of any of them. Was he just being selfish in all of this? 

_Yes, you're totally mental._

He leaned back in his chair and pressed a hand over his eyes. "I- I'm going, ah, going to have a shower," he answered quietly, quite sure he was going to be sick any moment now. Both of the people he deeply, deeply loved had put him in this hellish situation. His only mistake was allowing himself to love either of them. 

_Try fishing._

He'd have fucking died had he tried fishing, would have likely hung himself with the line had he done that. Christ. Sherlock was right. It would be hell. It would be hell and Jesus what if they pushed the other to a point that they felt cornered, and John lost them both violently? 

_You always hold too tight, John. Let them go._

Well, there was that option as well. He could find a little flat and… god no. He couldn't. He couldn't do that again. He could hardly stomach the idea of sitting down and trying to learn who Mary actually was, of hugging her and _forgiving her_ and...

His mouth watered as his stomach turned, making him lean forward and breathe slowly. 

_When you see this, you won't love me anymore and I don't want to watch that happen._

God help him. His ears snapped to a shrill ring and he'd want a drink if it were not for the way his stomach was threatening to turn inside out.

"John Hamish Watson. Look at me. We will work this out." Sherlock put a hand on John's leg. His voice softened. "It's going to work. Alright?"

It would work... if Sherlock could get everyone out from under Magnussen's thumb. "Easy. I didn't mean to upset you." The tension was written all over John. "It's just going to take some growing pains."

John dropped his hand from his eyes, shaking from head to toe, completely overwhelmed. "Sorry," he whispered, "I'm sorry. I- I'll get it together," and he would. He always did. He would. This was simple anxiety and he'd faced that before. He just needed- hell if he knew, but he'd sort it. "I- I'll..." but there was nothing for it at the moment, leaving him feeling sick and worn down, defeated. Every door open to him left some terrible mistake in his path, no matter what he did. 

Sherlock hummed low in his throat. There was a small squeeze to John's leg before he pushed up and moved to his violin. Soon the flat was filled with the soothing sounds of a piece Sherlock had composed just for John, though he'd never told him that. He'd taken elements he'd seen John relax to the most and combined them into a slow, gentle piece. The composition spoke more about how Sherlock Holmes felt about John Watson than all the sickly sweet words he'd managed during his ill and drugged times.

John closed his eyes, throat tight and lashes heavy as the long missed sound of Sherlock's violin threaded through the flat, wrapping around him like a blanket and giving him permission to just sit quietly. He wrapped his arms around himself as he leaned back and to the side, trying to allow the music to serve as a balm to his shattered nerves. 

Within ten minutes, John Watson was back down asleep in the only place that had truly been home in many years. The tension in his expression eased, and he slowly went lax in his chair, comforted by his old friend. 

Sherlock had no idea how long he played after John fell asleep, looping and making soft changes to the song as he went, until his arms ached and his head was a dull roar. But it was good. It was _fucking glorious_ to be able to do it. Sherlock covered John with the afghan before wrapping himself in his dressing gown and sinking to the sofa. Within minutes he was sleeping, face buried in a pillow that had once again taken on John's scent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's it... that's all she wrote peoples.
> 
>  _Raison d'être_ technically has two sequels. 
> 
> _**De Ses Cendres**_ is the second part of the _Reason and Ashes_ series. It follows after Sherlock comes back from his almost exile and is a direct continuation of _**Raison**_. Starts painfully and not pretty. Though it will, eventually, end on a good note. Heed the tags.
> 
>   _ **Herre**_ tells Mycroft's story during the events just prior to and during _Raison_. It's a part of the Word Play series. Please, _please_ note the tags on the story. It is _not_ for the faint of heart and is quite heart-wrenching. It will be explicit, it will not be pretty, and it will be painful. _**Heed the tags**_.
> 
> As always, please follow us on tumblr for updates and planned fics. Amphi at [Amphigoriously](http://amphigoriously.tumblr.com) and Symphony at [DemonicSymphony](http://demonicsymphony.tumblr.com).


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